PREDATORS
by Made Nightwing
Summary: Captain Robert Toland. United States Army Green Beret. Decorated combat veteran. Single father. And now, deep in the jungles of Colombia, an unwilling participant in the most popular show in the galaxy, outmatched, outgunned, and fighting for his life.
1. One More Time

**PREDATORS**

Chapter One: Prologue: One More Time

"_Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting of man and those who have hunted armed men long enough and like it, never really care for anything else thereafter."_

_-Ernest Hemmingway-1936_

**FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA**

**UNITED STATES OF AMERICA**

**OCTOBER 17****TH****, 2000**

**0240 HOURS**

**TEMPERATURE: FIVE DEGREES BELOW FREEZING**

"Well?" Major General Adam Waters, USMC Force Recon stamped his feet in the elevated guard tower. "It's been four hours Colonel. Your man clearly isn't coming. Can't say I blame him. We've got half a battalion of the 82nd out there searching for him, plus the snake eaters I brought along."

The other three flag officers nodded their agreement. General Karol Padaruski, commander of the 82nd Airborne Division, Rear Admiral Solomon Vance, Operations Advisor to the United States Joint Chiefs of Staff and Major General Liam Kort, Special Advisor on Military Affairs to the President of the United States.

Colonel Abraham Lenau smiled. The Commanding Officer of the 7th SFG, United States Special Forces, had a well earned reputation as a gambler. It was grumbled that his Vietnam officer's commission had been awarded to stop him from taking money away from the other NCOs in his unit.

"Give him a few more minutes General," the lean officer finally spoke. "He'll surprise you."

"Surprise me? Hell, I couldn't have stayed invisible for this long," Waters grumbled. "And I spent my time in the boonies Colonel."

"Which will just make it all the more impressive when he succeeds," Lenau propped his arms on the edge of the wooden structure, staring into the valley, where the paratroopers searched through the scrub with torches attached to their M-16A4 rifles.

"Five more minutes," General Waters warned Lenau. "And that's only because you got my boy out of..."

"Agreed," Lenau broke the marine off. Lieutenant Sam Waters, US Navy, had been ordered to fly a long range stealth and reconnaissance plane in a place that it wasn't supposed to be. He had been shot down, and Lenau had personally led the team that pulled the young flyer out of danger. General Waters had proclaimed his undying gratitude to Lenau's Green Berets ever since.

"Well, I'm not sticking around any longer," Samantha 'Sam' McInery ground out her cigarette impatiently. The female CIA analyst was as used to pulling late nights as the soldiers in the watchtower. But unlike them, she did it with a tall pot of coffee, an unlimited supply of cigarettes, and doing _useful analysis_. Not hanging around with a bunch of soldiers past their prime, watching a bunch of eager kids prod around in the bush. "Your man's probably back in his barracks, fast asleep by now."

"No ma'am," Colonel Lenau replied impassively. "His bunkmates have orders to shoot him if he steps through the door."

"Then he's holed up with some lonely Army wife over in the married personnel quarters," Sam reached for her cigarette case and was disgusted to find it empty. "Either way, he's clearly abandoned the operations area. My reports...fuck. Does anyone have a cigarette?"

One of the figures in the watchtower stepped forward to pass her a cigarette, then obliging flipped open a silver lighter and allowed her to dip the tip into the flame. "Sorry, only have low tar content," the soldier apologised. "The full strength's are bad for the lungs."

"It's fine," Sam drew a deep breath through the cigarette. She frowned, the man wasn't one of the 82nd troopers acting as guards on the outpost. "Where did you come from?"

"Where did I come from?" the soldier sounded offended. "I've been standing here for five hours, waiting for you to notice me."

Waters snatched a torch from one of the guards, and shone it on the grinning face of Captain Robert Toland, United States Army Green Beret. Dressed in nothing but a standard set of woodland camouflage fatigues and some face paint, his expression resembled that of a cat that had successfully stolen a litre of cream.

"How the hell did you get up here?" The Marine demanded.

"Well I spent about an hour sneaking around your boys," Toland gave a courteous nod to General Padaruski. "Then one of your Force Recon Boys came within a few inches of nabbing me, so I decided to come up here. Incidentally Admiral Vance, I wouldn't recommend skiing in Colorado this year, Alaska's a better choice, thicker snow."

"I'll pass that on to my wife," the dark skinned Admiral had to contain his laughter. "Very imaginative Captain. Haven't even seen SEAL's perform that well. I'm convinced. How about you Liam?"

"President Bush is gonna want to knight this guy with the report I'll be giving him," Major General Kort slapped Toland on the back.

"Unanimous," Sam nodded approvingly, her previous comments forgotten. "Just the man for the job."

"Glad you agree," Lenau turned back to Toland. "That will be all Captain. Report to the briefing room tomorrow."

"Could I ask...?"

"Tomorrow Captain!" Lenau used the tone he might adopt with a petulant child. Toland shrugged and moved toward the ladder.

"We're not at liberty to say Captain," General Waters lit up a cigar. "But one thing I can tell you. Some Colombian drug cartels are going to discover just how much of a pain in the ass you are, through personal experience."

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**TRIUNE TOWER**

**NOS ASTRA**

**ILIUM**

**HEADQUARTERS OF TRIUNE ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRIES**

The yahg charged after the krogan with a feral scream, brandishing a primitive spear. The krogan ducked underneath the first thrust, grappling with his foe. The yahg's mouth opened into a gaping maw, roaring at his prey, hungry for his flesh. The krogan stared back, his expression almost thoughtful. Then he drew back his head and brought it crashing into the face of the yahg.

The massive carnivore staggered back, one of his eyes bruised, teeth dropping out of his mouth. He swung back around, meaning to finally crush his foe, only to find the krogan standing in front of him, spear in hand.

"A good fight!" the krogan panted, then jabbed forward, impaling the massive alien the full length of the wooden instrument. The yahg screamed again, drawing back his claws, trying to cut the krogan open with the razor sharp instruments. The krogan backed away, then retrieved his shotgun from the ground. "A good fight."

The sound of the shotgun's blast echoed through the rocky gorge. Wiping blood away from his face, the krogan turned away from his kill. "This is Wrex; send the shuttle to pick me up."

The studio audience erupted into cheers. A mixed collection of species, they were the idle young and rich of Ilium, piles of money already made and stored for them. And what better place to start an evening out than attending the season finale of the most popular show in Citadel space, 'Even Chance'. The premise was behind the show was that a hunter or team of hunters were landed onto the world of a non-spacefaring species, and then pursued and killed a selected target. The targets were always selected for their lethality, in this case, an Alpha Yahg.

"And there you have it folks," Keira Triune stepped in front of the cameras. "Even the raw strength and savagery of the yahg prove to be no match for the skill of Urdnot Wrex, currently our top ranked hunter. We'll be back in two months time, for the premier of Season Two of Even Chance, where the lives of our participants are in their own hands. I'm Keira Triune, saying, goodnight Ilium and see you again soon."

Waving at her audience, Keira bounced off the stage, to be greeted by her smiling salarian secretary.

"You were wonderful tonight Miss Triune," Besli presented her boss with a dressing gown. The elegant asari draped it across her shoulders and gave Besli a teasing grin that sent shivers down her spine. Keira believed in being a good boss. Certainly Besli was a sweet young thing, always had the reports done on time and had her schedule perfectly synchronised.

"I was wasn't I?" Keira walked toward her private elevator. "Honestly Besli, my job's just too easy. Just take an idea, expand on it, find some investors and watch the profits roll in. Has he arrived yet?"

"He's up in your stateroom. I had a fresh change of clothes, some armour and refreshments sent up to him," Besli told her proudly. "Just as you instructed."

"I don't know what I'd do without you," the asari gave the secretary a peck on the cheek. "You've definitely earned your bonus this year."

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**CITADEL**

**KITHOI WARD**

**NIGHT CYCLE**

"Hmph!" Chief Detective Romus Vakarian snorted as he leaned forward and flipped off the display screen. "Even chance? Those poor bastards that get hunted never have a chance. It's murder, and I could prove that in any court of law!"

"Now dear, remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure," his wife, Chali Vakarian soothed him. "No use getting upset over it."

"Yahg, Chrithi, Wsev, the list goes on," Romus grumbled, going to the balcony of his modest apartment. "All uninitiated species, all of them completely oblivious as to what's happening when a bunch of bloodthirsty krogan suddenly appear on their tails."

"You could go to the Executor? Ask him to speak with the Council?" Chali suggested as she washed the plates from dinner.

"Perhaps," Romus had calmed down. "I'll speak with him about it tomorrow. That...that _asari! _ Has to be violating some of the Council's laws."

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**BACHELOR OFFICER'S QUARTERS**

**FORT BRAG, NORTH CAROLINA**

"Hey Kerry," Bob Toland spoke wearily into the phone. "How's my little girl doing?"

"She misses her father," his sister's voice had a distinct reprimanding tone in it. "You were supposed to be coming home for a while after that exercise in Canada. How long is it going to be this time?"

"I've got no idea," Bob confessed truthfully. "We've been ordered into isolation. This is the last phone call I can make for a while. The mission's top secret. I promise, I'll be taking all that leave I've got saved up. Six months, with me having nothing to do but spend time with Beth."

"Bob!" he privately winced. He was the soldier, but even he bowed to the authority of his big sister. "She's six years old. These are her formative years. She barely remembers what you look like, and I haven't even got the courage to ask her if she remembers her mother!"

Toland's grip on the phone handle tightened. Both ends of the phone line were silent. Finally Kerry spoke again. "Bob...I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. But that car crash only left her with one parent. And that little girl deserves to have that parent around at all times."

"I know that, I just..." he had no excuses, they both knew it. "Just tell my baby girl that I love her. Give her a big hug and a kiss for me. I'll be home in a few months, I promise."

"OK then Bob," his sister suddenly sounded as tired as he was. "Go save the world little brother. Just don't forget your own."

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"Wrex! Darling!" Triune flung her arms around the burly krogan. He chuckled at her display of affection. "I trust that nasty yahg didn't rough you up too badly?"

"Barely scratched me," he returned her embrace gently. "He fought well."

"So I saw," Keira broke off the hug and sauntered to the trays of delicacies lying on the main table of her luxurious living quarters. Snatching a knife off the table, she flung it at him. "Think fast!"

Wrex caught the knife in midair. This little asari was exactly his kind of woman. So delightfully vicious when the mood struck her, but so unassumingly naive about everything else. Almost like Aleena in her own way. "Would you kill me before my dinner woman?"

"How thoughtless of me," Keira giggled. "And I'm sure you were looking forward to desert as well?"

"If you expect me to make a remark about how the desert looks delicious, you've mistaken me for a turian trying to impress the Consort," Wrex gave a bark of laughter. "Have you picked a new target for the next season of your show?"

"All in good time darling," Keira cooed as she strutted toward the bedroom, undoing the clasp around her neck as she walked. "In the meantime, how about you let me take some time to _soothe_ your aches."

Wrex smiled again as the dress slid from her smooth body. This might just be the greatest job of his life. Certainly, the perks weren't bad.

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Bob relaxed into the bed, making sure that his M1911 A1 Colt .45 was primed, safed and ready on his bedside table. Only idiots slept with the gun under their pillow. If you had a bad dream, your finger could tense on the trigger and you'd blow your own face off.

His mind turned back to the previous day. When he had started...then stopped packing for his trip back to his sister's house in California.

"_Bob, you've been in the line for a while now," Colonel Lenau sounded dubious. "You should get back to Beth. You don't need to do this mission."_

"_Come on sir," Bob pleaded. "I'm the best one for this mission. I can handle it. Just one more time out sir. I'm good for one more time before I need a break."_

Toland twisted onto his side, trying to silence his conscience. "I promise Beth, I'll make it up to you," he murmured into his pillow.

Just one more time. He needed to feel that adrenaline pulsing through his veins as bullets whistled past him, and the satisfaction as his own shots took down his targets. Just one more time.

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A/N: I know that some people are not big fans of my Ashley story. As such, I'm doing this on the side to satisfy your cravings. Here's something you need to take into account for this story: Mass Effect never was, and never will be a video game in this universe.

To tell the truth, I debated doing this as a Self Insert. But then I decided that before I even consider doing a story with me as a central character, I need to do basic training first. So any SI fics on my end are going to wait until next year. To the best of my knowledge, I think someone did a fic based around Shepard fighting for survival in a game show, but I don't think I'm copying any intellectual property here.

Romus Vakarian is Garrus's great grandfather. And why did I choose Wrex to be the hunter? Who else** could** I have used?


	2. Plan to Win

Predators

Chapter Two: Who Plans Wins

I don't own Bioware

"_If you're in a fair fight, you didn't plan it properly."_

**FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA**

**7****TH**** SPECIAL FORCES GROUP HEADQUARTERS**

**0630 HOURS**

"The premise is quite simple," Major General Waters addressed Captain Toland. "We're going to take eight Green Berets, plus some liaisons from the Colombian Army's Anti-Narcotics Brigade, and insert them right into the middle of Colombian territory. Once there, they're going to cause all kinds of hell for the cartels."

"You want me to lead the team?" Toland felt a lump of excitement form in his throat. The Colombian drug cartels. The most hated enemy of the profession soldier was a coward who killed. Terrorists were high on the list, but drugs, they held the dubious honour of being Public Enemy #1 for the United States Military. The Army had fought its own bitter campaign during the eighties to stamp out drug use within the ranks. It had been brutal, but successful.

"Officially, you'll be in joint command with Lieutenant Hector Lancero," Waters nodded to a Hispanic featured young man sitting at the other end of the conference table. "Unofficially..."

"I will defer to your expertise," the Colombian officer finished the sentence. "Your President wishes to take 'decisive action' against these scum. Mine agrees with him. With your help, we shall inflict many blows on them, yes?"

"I hope so," Toland extended his hand to the anti-narcotics soldier. The kid was wide eyed, eager as hell. Probably went through every special school the Colombians had. A few more like him, plus some experienced operators, and Toland's job would already be half done. "We both share a hatred of this poison?"

"My brother was a foolish young student," Lancero's eyes briefly flashed with anger. "He overdosed on cocaine. I swore justice on the _bastardo _responsible for his poison."

He hadn't said 'vengeance', Toland noted with faint amusement. Kid probably went to church every Sunday. "It'll be good to have you along as my executive."

Like all men his age, Lancero reacted well to praise. His chest puffed out slightly. Probably over the moon to be acting as the second officer to an actual _Green Beret_. Toland's real exec would actually be one of his own men, a senior NCO most likely. But Bob made a mental promise to teach the Colombian officer how to be a real leader, just like Toland's first Master Sergeant had taught him.

"The mission is being run as a joint operation, between the Colombian government, United States SOCCOM, and the CIA," Samantha McInery gestured to a map of the Colombian Highlands. "This grid is the Melendez cartel's backyard. The most isolated of all the groups. Nothing but jungle in both directions for hundreds of kilometres. Satellite reconnaissance has confirmed this as their principal area of manufacture and transport of high grade crack cocaine."

"Precision airstrikes were suggested by your Air Force. But my government did not like the idea, too much of a chance that the peasants who the cartels bribe and threaten will also be killed," Lancero explained sheepishly. "So we will handle them on the ground. This will be the first of many such operations."

"The cartels get their product over here in three ways," Colonel Lenau traced the red lines on the map with his finger tips. "The first is by land, over the Mexican border. INS and Border Security are coping fairly well, but that avenue will have to be dealt with using serious military force sooner or later. The second is by sea. With the new equipment the Coast Guard is getting, we're expected to increase the efficiency of our apprehension of the drug boats by at least fifty percent."

"The final route is by air," here it was Admiral Vance who was frowning. "That's our big weakness. Literally hundreds of aircraft fly over the border every day. Everything from passenger jets to pleasure craft. We can't search them all."

"But if we could track them from the source, we'd have a better chance of eliminating the drug flights," Sam looked quite smug. "I thought that one up. We have a squadron of National Guard F-15's standing out of Florida. And their pilots are just aching at a chance to slow down the drugs coming their way."

"And that's just the start," General Waters spoke again. "Their mobile drug labs? Cartel captains? Hell, the damn bosses even. Take 'em all out."

"They're going to wise up to us eventually," Toland pointed out. "We'd have a few weeks before they get organised and start searching for us with everything they have."

"By that time, a Blackhawk from Panama will have you lifted out and redeployed into another AO," Waters grinned. "It'll drive them crazy. Sting them in the side, withdraw and manoeuvre. We'll be able to carry it on for months. It'll drive the street price of cocaine through the roof. Should you be cut off for some reason, you've already proven yourself capable of staying out of sight."

"I like the concept," Toland forced his voice to stay calm. In his fifteen years as a soldier, he had never been given a mission like this. The chance to strike at the very heart of the bad guys. "Nice and simple. Hard to screw up. I'll do it."

Lenau was about to speak again when Toland's face hardened. "Just a few conditions though. I want a twenty four hour satellite uplink. A chopper on standby at all times, from either Panama or Guantanamo Bay, ready to pick us up if things get bad. And I want free rein with who I get on my team."

"Shouldn't be a problem. Hell, we could probably wrangle a Presidential pardon for your team if things go FUBAR." There was something reassuring about having the Presidential Military Advisor on hand, Major General Kort had been a career officer in the US Armoured Cavalry, earning his spurs in Vietnam, and his general's stars during Desert Storm. Destined for his own division, he spoke with the authority of the President.

"And I want an Agency asset on my team," Toland's eyes were now fixed on Sam. The analyst smiled sweetly at him.

"That might be a problem, you see..."

"If I'm willing to put my ass on the line, the Agency should be willing to send somebody with me. Somebody who knows the terrain, somebody who isn't afraid to get their hands dirty," his green eyes challenged her. Sam felt her heart sinking. Damn this bastard was smarter than he looked.

"Who do you want?"

"Damned if I know her real name, but I know she's with Special Activities Division," Toland referred to the CIA's semi-famous unit of paramilitary officers, most of them ex-military, but some just gifted amateurs. "First met her when I went into Panama after Noriega with the Rangers back in '88. Ran into her again when my chopper pulled her out of Iraq in '91. Pretty sure that I spotted her once or twice in Mogadishu during '93. And she was definitely giving me sniper support in '96, when Aidid finally bit the dust. She called herself..."

"Alice," Sam frowned. "She's been retired for two years. Does it have to be her?"

"Does the Agency have another spook that can shoot like her?"

"I take your point, this may take a few phone calls," Sam stood from her chair. "I'll be ten minutes."

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**TRIUNE TOWER**

**NOS ASTRA, ILIUM**

**MAIN DATA COMPILATION AREA**

"Season Two needs to start off with a real blockbuster," Keira was brainstorming with the creative team. Senior stockholders themselves, they had an unbreakable interest in ensuring the show's success. "Something that will grab the audience's attention from day one."

"What about the Geth?" a turian suggested. "It might take some effort, but I'm confident we could capture one and release it into a hunting area."

"It would be a very short hunt," the team's resident quarian, now on the fourth year of her Pilgrimage, spoke drily. "They're smart together, but dumb apart. One platform on its own would have enough intelligence to point and shoot. Nothing fun about it."

"Weary contempt: Besides, the whole point of the show is that we are hunting uninitiated species," an elcor pointed out. "Insincere reconciliation: Although I do recognize that hunting that drell assassin was a stroke of genius."

"No, no," Keira stared out over the city. "It has to be a species with real intelligence this time. Up till now, the ones we've hunted have barely been past the stone age. Besli, could you read out the list of recently discovered species from that STG report?"

"Certainly ma'am," the young salarian brought up her omni tool and began rattling off from the dossiers. "I've flagged several likely candidates. Species 2223. Bi-pedal, reptilian. Already grasped basic tribal structure. Males are typically over seven feet, with massive teeth and tails for striking. They are..."

Keira silenced her with a wave of her hand. "No, just more hand to hand slaughter. It will keep Wrex happy, but not the viewers. Read me your next choice, but remember, I want smart ones."

Besli scrolled down her list thoughtfully. "How about this one ma'am? Species 2156. Bi-pedal mammals. Very high intelligence markers. Have achieved space flight, but it is estimated it will be at least fifty to sixty years before they begin full scale colonization of their own solar system. Per the Citadel's regulations on sovereign territory, no mineral rights have been claimed on any of the planets. They call themselves, 'humans'."

"What does the database have on them?"

"A basic scan revealed that there are three main superpowers and a few major alliances amongst their nation states," the secretary sensed that her boss was interested in these ones. "The People's Republic of China, the Russian Federation and the United States of America. All the nation states maintain peace throughout the planet with a somewhat tenuous organisation called the United Nations."

"So they're in a period of industrial and cultural development," Keira reclined back onto a couch. She examined a picture of a human. "They're not strong enough to be individual threats to our hunters. Their culture is not one of survival. They are not suitable. Next."

"Well, then there's Species..." Besli was silenced as Keira sat up. The asari's excitement had returned.

"Which of their nation-states has the strongest soldiers?"

"Well, the Peoples Republic of China has a large military, but it is not as efficient or well trained as others. The Russians have a fierce warrior culture but are more focused on building their economy than their army. The countries of Australia and England have well trained soldiers, but not in great numbers. The Americans appear to have the best military on the planet."

"Americans," Keira rolled the word off her tongue. "Do we have one of our ships nearby?"

"A small scout ship is in the Exodus Cluster," a turian looked pleased with himself. "It can reach the Sol system in twenty minutes."

"Do so now," Keira rubbed her hands together. "Tell them to evade detection and commence an infiltration of their computer networks. A small probe, some way to locate suitable targets for our hunters."

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**FORT BRAGG**

**PERSONNEL OFFICE**

**OCTOBER 18****TH****, 1420 HOURS**

"You know I wantDucky, Mick and Byrne," Toland ran his finger down the list of candidates. They had to be experts in jungle warfare, survival and escape. His preference was also that they spoke Spanish, and be able to at least pass as tourists should they need to evacuate through a population centre.

"Reasonable," Lenau was alone with the captain now. "Ducky's the best scout I've ever seen. You'll want Mick and Byrne to bring -249's or -60's?"

"-60's, tree trunks can't slowdown 7.62 mm rounds," Bob took a sip from the Coke on Lenau's desk. They had skipped lunch at the Officer's Mess and ordered burgers. Unhealthy, but they'd sweat off the extra fat over the run tomorrow. "Bulldog can come along as backup for Ducky. Where's Carlos at the moment?"

"Doing cross training with the Israelis. I'll send a retrieval message ASAP," Lenau pointed out another name. "How about Benny? Good medic, just finished cross training with our British cousins in the SAS. Probably learned some useful tricks."

"Benny's a CT man, doesn't like the jungle," Toland shook his head. "Pixie's already been down to Colombia to help train their hostage rescue guys. He's the better choice."

"I'll give you that one, but Pixie has a nice spot lined up for him as an instructor over at Fort Benning. He might not want to go."

"I'll have a talk with him." Toland knew he had reached the end of his rope. "I need a good exec. Chris Shepard, just made Sergeant First Class. He's got experience, toughness, and..."

Lenau held up his hand, indicating Toland to stop talking. "I know who Chris is, Bob. I also know that his wife is just under seven months pregnant. Chris is due for a stand down period. You can ask, but I'm forbidding you to order him back into the firing line."

"He'll say yes," Toland was confident of that. "You can take that to the bank."

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"Our scout ship reports that we've gained a limited access to the communications being communicated via satellite," the quarian announced. "It's heavily encrypted by their standards, but our VI's can crack it easily."

"Then let's listen to the sound of a species that thinks itself secure," Keira snapped her fingers to call for a drink. This was going to be wonderful.

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**FORT BRAGG**

**COMMUNICATIONS CENTRE**

"Tech Sergeant?" Colonel Lenau passed the sheaf of paper to the on duty NCO. "Encrypt that signal and send it to White House and Pentagon, for the immediate attention of POTUS."

"Yes sir," Sergeant Bros turned back to his computer. He'd noticed an increase of secure traffic lately. Must be something big brewing. Or the Green Berets were just playing practical jokes. The Special Forces were renowned for their inappropriate sense of humour.

He began hand typing the signal into the computer, where the **TAPDANCE** code system would begin the encryption process. A jointly developed system between the brightest minds at CIA, NSA and the private sector, the coding was randomly generated using a quantum level algorithm, and therefore unbreakable. Such was the theory.

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The military level VI's cut through the code like a hot knife through soft butter. The latest communiqués appeared on the screens in front of Keira's staff.

"Got something about peacekeeping operations," another asari offered.

"If they're anything like Citadel peacekeepers, it would be less of a challenge than a blind varren," Keira replied testily. "I want something bold, something controversial. Something that will draw in all audiences, something..."

"Here," Cal V'let spoke excitedly. Former turian military, he specialised in Signals Intelligence. "A top secret message from the head of an elite force to the leaders of one of the nation states. The Americans. Something called 'Operation Common Legacy'. Attached is a list of names. He mentions, 'isolated deployment', 'anti-narcotics', 'special weapons required', and 'hit and run'."

"Interesting," Keira leaned forward. "Can you make out any more?"

"Not much I'm afraid ma'am," Cal spun around. "The language translation software is quite buggy. These 'humans' have a complicated language. But I think he's beginning the paperwork necessary to send a unit of soldiers into an isolated area to combat illegal narcotics. Back when I served with the Sabres of Palaven, we conducted such operations as these against red sand suppliers on the borders of our space. These deployments were long and arduous, we were frequently cut off from our support. But we were elite soldiers, the best around."

"You think that this is something similar?"

"That would be my recommendation ma'am."

"Keep a close eye on this," Keira instructed the turian. "Keep my advised. I'll prepare a premier, and instruct Wrex to assemble a team of his own. Tell our scout ship to stay out of sight. I think we might have a winner here."

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**SOMEWHERE IN COLOMBIA**

**MELNDEZ CARTEL COMPOUND**

"Pablo!" Enrique Melendez moved to embrace his younger brother. "How was Europe?"

"Not bad," Pablo laughed. "The women in France in particular are very fine. My attempts to conduct business failed however. We have no network available, so we cannot ship our product there easily, as we can with America. In Amsterdam, it is already legal to use narcotics, but it is heavily taxed. So many opportunities, brother. But no way to take advantage of them."

"Perhaps one day," Enrique adopted a conciliatory tone. "Still, you have been gone for far too long. Take a few days to relax. You have earned them. For the moment, we continue to grow rich off the Americans, and their government continues to bluster fruitlessly. Even this new President Bush has not the stomach to fight us."

"So much the better for us!" Pablo jogged up the steps into the mansion. "And so much to their misfortune."

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**FORT BRAGG**

**MARRIED PERSONNEL RESIDENTIAL AREA**

**1645 HOURS**

Bob parked his Corvette just up the street from Chris and Angela Shepard's house. Whistling merrily, he pulled a six pack of dark Australian beer from the passenger's seat and began walking past the well maintained lawns and hedges. The Australian contingents in Kuwait and Somalia had brought along their own beer. The digger's had been damn generous with it, they had definitely converted Toland to the extra strong draught.

"Hello beautiful," he gave Angela's bulging stomach an affection patch and pecked at her cheek as he entered the front door. "How's the littlest Shepard doing?"

"Kicking up a storm," Angie smiled at her husband's friend. "Last ultrasound says its a boy. Chris is ecstatic, he finally knew what colour to pain the room. We're going for a green, a nice soft green. He's in there right now."

"Thanks," Toland took two beers from the pack, then entered the nursery. Sergeant First Class Christopher Shepard, marksman and explosives expert, winner of the Bronze Star for Valour and the Purple Heart for wounds sustained in the line of duty, was gazing in utter bewilderment at the pieces of a crib lying on the floor.

"Sir, do you happen to remember how you set one of these things up when Beth was born?" Chris accepted the beer gratefully. Toland shook his head.

"My First Sergeant had ten kids, he did it for me. And cut the 'sir' crap, we're not on duty."

"You got it," Shepard took a swig from the beer. His gaze suddenly turned suspicious. "Whatever it is, no."

"You haven't even heard what I was going to say!" Toland protested. It was a joke within 7th SFG that whenever Captain Bob wanted to soften bad news, he'd bring along a case of beer.

"Bob, my kid is being born in two months," Shepard replied firmly. "After that job I did in Iran, the Colonel promised me I'd have stand down duty for at least four months."

"This one's important."

"So's my kid, and I don't want that little guy growing up without a father," Chris walked toward the back door and the porch. "I'm twenty six years old Bob. I've spent eight years in the military, three as a Green Beret. One or two more years and I'll be eligible for college and a commission. I'm not volunteering for one of your crazy..."

"It's drugs Chris," the words stopped the NCO in his tracks. "We're going after the cartels."

Shepard sometimes joked about the number of bullets flying up and down his street growing up. The reality was a little better than the stories, but not by much. Born and raised in West Brooklyn, Chris's father had been an honest worker, his life crushed short by poor safety standards. To put his little brother through high school, Gerry Shepard had gotten himself tied in with the Irish Mob.

Chris had hero worshiped his brother's every footstep, dreaming of a time when he could be like him. Gerry was the protector of the neighbourhood, the guy that kept the street hoods in line and the drug dealers out. So naturally, when a Colombian gang began staking their claim in Irish territory, and started pushing their cocaine out on the streets, Gerry had gone to lay down the law.

Using nothing but a baseball bat and his bare hands, he had beaten six pushers into the ground. The next day, the gang's chief enforcer shot Gerry dead on the steps of the house he shared with Chris, using an Ingram MAC-10 sub-machine gun. A gang war followed, with the Irish coming out on top, but with Christopher's high school friends either dead or doing hard time.

He graduated high school, enlisted the US Army and never looked back. Along the way, he had been accepted into the elite ranks of the United States Special Forces, lost his Brooklyn accent, and got married. Curly blonde hair, with typical Irish green eyes, he was a guy who had taken the hand he was dealt with and made the most of it.

And he hated drugs with every fibre of his being.

"Bob, I can't just abandon my wife like this," he ran his hands through his hair. "Not when the kid's coming so soon."

"Then you better hurry so you can get back faster," Angela exited the house. "Chris, I knew what I was getting into when I married you. I'm a soldier's wife. Our son is a soldier's child. Go make us both proud."

"Damn Chris," Bob shook his head. "This girl's too good for you."

"Don't I know it," Chris pulled his wife in closer. "But it'd be a lonely world for me without her."

"You'll come?"

"To make this world a bit cleaner for my kid? Yeah, I'll come."

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**A/N: Gee, I wonder if Chris Shepard is anybody's ancestor?**


	3. Political Ties

Predators

Chapter Three: Political Ties

I don't own Bioware

"_Law, without force, is impotent."  
Pascal_

**FORT BRAGG**

**BACHELOR OFFICER'S QUARTERS**

**0330 HOURS, OCTOBER 19****TH****, 2000**

"Sir! Sir!" the Duty Corporal shook Captain Bob Toland awake. "Colonel Lenau's compliments sir. He wants you downstairs in five minutes, doesn't matter what uniform you're wearing. I've put some coffee on the table sir."

"Thank you Corporal," Toland staggered up and managed to make it to the bathroom. Once there, he threw ice cold water on his face until he felt mildly awake. In the next minute, he gulped down a cup of the strong Army coffee, then threw on a set of fatigues, laced up his boots and stumbled down the steps, almost falling into Lenau's arms.

"You shouldn't drink so much," Lenau chided him.

"You promised me a day off today sir," Toland retorted. He never drank before a day of training or briefing. He wasn't an alcoholic. Hangovers were too painful for it.

"Things change," Lenau spun on his heel. "Come on, you can have breakfast on the plane."

"Plane?" Toland followed him, his misery increasing. "Why do I have to go on a plane?"

"Air Force Gulfstream, direct to Washington," Lenau held the door open for Bob. "We're going to meet some very important people. I had your dress uniform put on board while you were sleeping. Just a few more minutes, you can get some sleep and some more coffee."

"No amount of coffee in the world could make me feel better," Toland informed his boss as he swayed toward the HMWV awaiting them.

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**TRIUNE TOWER**

**NOS ASTRA, ILIUM**

"AND NOW!" the announcer's voice blared out. "YOUR HOST, KEIRAAAAAAAAA TRIUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNE!"

Keira pranced out into the lights on stage. The set was currently a jumble of silvers, blacks and greys. Holographic screens would appear on them later. She beamed out at the audience, basking in their applause. Keira was clad in a daring, low cut silver dress guaranteed to set the pulse of any male, and quite a few females, racing a little faster.

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen, thank you. What a wonderful audience you are," she did a little twirl on stage. Her theatrics were responsible for drawing the viewers all over the galaxy in, and then keeping them interested. "No doubt you're wondering why you're here only a few days after our last season finished. Well, I've got good news for you. We've already started preparing for filming, and I just had to give you a sneak peek at who will be competing in the season premiere of 'EVEN CHANCE'!"

There were another series of enthusiastic cheers. On the screens were projected pictures of various humans. "These new people are called 'humans'," Keira explained. "Bi-pedal mammals that reside on the third planet from the Sol sun, a few jumps away from the Exodus Relay. By their reckoning, they are in the two thousandth year since time became measured. The start of a brand new millennium. In that two thousand years, they have gone from being barbarians with bows and arrows, to an enlightened species capable of rudimentary space flight, though no further than their own moon."

"Hey Keira!" a salarian kid from the prestigious Tepaka Clan called from the audience. "Is this one gonna be legal?"

She gave a sly wink at the camera. "If the Council feels that I'm breaking any laws, they're free to take it up with my lawyers. Well, probably not free, they'll just waste a few billion credits with a court case they'll never win."

The crowd roared with laughter.

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**CITADEL**

**C-SEC HEADQUARTERS**

**CHIEF INVESTIGATOR'S OFFICE**

"Damn her!" Romus Vakarian snarled at his screen. "This is exactly what I was talking about Executor. Give them an inch and they'll go a mile."

Executor Paeol, an asari and a former street cop, still carried her weapon to remind herself of how she had once put her own life on the line to defend the innocent. Her career had started off on Ilium, she was somewhat sensitive about any lawbreaking involving that particular planet. But for now, she just looked frustrated.

"Romus, we've talked about this," Paeol ran hand over her head tentacles. "Ilium isn't in Citadel space. We have no authority in the Terminus systems. Now, if we put in a request for extradition, and the Ilium Confederacy agrees, we'd have a solid case. Miss Triune has given us all the evidence we would ever need to put her behind bars for life."

"The Confederacy will never extradite a national to us!" the turian detective spat back. "Least of all someone as rich as _her!_ She needs to be dealt with. One way or another! If necessary, I'll go there and bring her back myself!"

Paeol crossed her arms. The asari was eight hundred years old and had absolutely zero tolerance for bullshit from her officers. "I'm going to pretend that you didn't just suggest extralegal extradition."

"Why not? Weren't you on the team that brought in T'Moneer?"

"That was four hundred years ago. Get with the times Vakarian."

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"At first, we weren't sure who we would send our hunters after," Keira shook her head sadly. "But then, as if delivered to us by the Goddess, came this message. A plan to attack the suppliers of a very popular narcotic, using a team of elite soldiers. As you know, Triune Enterprises supports the legalisation of the drug trade, so it may be more safely regulated. So we decided that maybe we could help the...metaphorical brothers of our oppressed friends."

Another raucous cheer. The holoscreens had dropped down. Pictures of humans began to appear on them. Two short, brown skinned men with identical grinning faces stared at the camera.

"We'll start with the first members of this team. Members of the 'Colombian Anti-Narcotics Brigade'. Sergeants Juan and Ramon Diaz, twin brothers who saw their father gunned down in a fight between government troops and anarchist guerrillas. They have excellent training records, but how will they fair when they go up against our own personal anarchists?"

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**TEN MINUTES OUT FROM ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE**

**WASHINGTON D.C**

**0630 HOURS**

Lenau gave a satisfied nod as Toland stepped out of the change room at the back of the Gulfstream. Part of the meeting today would be the psychological impact that Toland had to make on those with the final say in the operation. And right now, the Captain looked like a man on a mission. He filled out every inch of his uniform, broad shoulders displayed underneath the dress coat, firm waist encapsulated by a brass clasped belt, patent leather dress shoes tightly laced at the bottom.

In his hand, he held his dark green beret with silver Captain's bars. The iconic headdress that had been worn by America's elite soldiers, ever since the 1st Special Service Force had come into existence in the dark days of World War II. Freshly shaven, black hair cut high and tight, sorrowful grey eyes looking like steel globes. The poster boy come to life.

Lenau copped a fair amount of ribbing for his own appearance. A short Creole from the swamps of Louisiana, he looked like a matchstick that someone had draped clothes around. More than one biker and 'peace' protestor had gone looking for trouble with the tiny Corporal after his first and only tour of Vietnam in 1972.

The belligerent shouts of 'murderer' and 'baby killer' he had borne with stoic endurance, as he watched his returned squad mates publicly scorned by former friends. But if anyone spat on the uniform, his lovingly maintained coat of green, then the passive boy turned into a fireball straight from hell.

As Toland sat down opposite him, Lenau allowed his mind to wonder back to those dark days. No words could ever express his eternal contempt for the 'un-employed commies' that his own Captain had labelled them. They had openly aided, consorted and given comfort to the enemy. Jane Fonda had had her picture taken with an NVA anti-aircraft gun, then been hailed as a hero instead of executed as a traitor.

For damn sure they had leaked intelligence to the enemy. Troop movements, dossiers on important POWs, and for fucking certain they had sent intel to the gooks that made them move all the prisoners out of the Song Tay camp a day or two before the Green Berets descended for their daring rescue attempt.

Dishonourable scum, traitors, hippy bastards, drug users. That last offence was almost worse than the others. Lenau knew better than most the damage that drugs had done to the military. It had started off with a little marijuana that the conscripts would pass around in the barracks. The volunteers like Lenau and his buddy, Staff Sergeant Diletto, had stuck clear of the weed. Bad for discipline. Then that fat new Platoon Sergeant had moved in.

Riley. Riley the Pig. Riley the Boss. Riley the Pusher. Him and his eternal supply of heroin and LSD. He got the fresh kids hooked, then kept pumping them full of it in return for their meagre service pay. Diletto had taken a stand. The big, tough Italian had filled a sock full of batteries and beaten Riley into a snivelling pulp. For a while, Riley had backed off. Then Diletto started behaving erratically, losing his hair and his sturdy muscles. He eventually lost his mind, started rambling on about his brother who hadn't returned from Korea. The docs shipped him off to psyche ward. Riley had gloated on about how he had spiked Diletto's morning coffee with LSD every day for a month. Lenau had started carrying a Colt .45 at all times, scared for his own life, and wishing he had the courage to take Riley's.

But Riley eventually got his, even though Lenau had been at West Point, training for his officer's commission when the day finally arrived. The day that the Military Police dragged Riley and his confederates out of the barracks and a military jury sent them off to Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. The story went that he had pissed off some ex-Marines, who gutted him like a fish. Lenau liked to think that his end had been extremely painful.

The Colonel had no qualms about sending his men to kill drug dealers. Not after the ten years it took Big Tony to recover his sanity, not after he had seen those bright young recruits turn into sullen addicts. He wished he was still young enough to accompany his men, take his old CAR-15 out of storage, sharpen up his bayonet and go hunting. But that was Toland's job now. Or would be, if today went well.

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"...and finally Lieutenant Hector Lancero, trained at the very best academies, highly motivated and eager for battle," Keira looked almost appreciatively at the human, he was no doubt considered very handsome among his species. "Well, his first run in with Wrex ought to cure him of that."

There was another round of applause. Keira knew how to pander to the crowd, get them hyped beyond belief. It was almost a drug-induced haze when she got going, her words and body flowing in unison. "But now? Now we come to the real tough targets. Men who have proven themselves in actual battle. Veterans! Hunters! Fighters! Warriors! The United States Special Forces. The Green Berets! Their leader, Captain Robert..."

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**THE WHITE HOUSE**

**OVAL OFFICE**

**WASHINGTON D.C**

"...Toland," the President extended his hand and grasped the soldier's. Bob immediately noticed something about the new President. His handshake was firm, dry and honest. He had heard a lot of disparaging comments about the man's intelligence. They were wrong. There was integrity behind those eyes, a frank honesty that Toland liked. "I've heard a lot about you Captain."

"Exaggerated I'm sure," Toland found himself wondering what to say. Did a captain try and make small talk with the most powerful man in the world?

"You're modesty is admirable," the President gestured to one of the couches. Bob noticed that the room looked a lot smaller than he had expected. The couch was comfortable though. Colonel Lenau and General Waters stood to the side, giving the impression of a pair of parents introducing their son to a prospective suitor. The Secret Service agents were looking even more intimidating than usual. When you had a man sitting less than two feet away from the President, and that man knew how to kill with his bare hands, paranoia was entirely appropriate. The President signalled for one of the Navy stewards to bring in some coffee. "But I've seen all of your file Captain Toland. One of the perks of this job, nothing is classified. I'm very impressed. But it's a little light on the personal details. Tell me a little about your family Captain."

"Well sir, my grandfather was a submariner in World War II. A sonar chief, hunted Japanese convoys for most of the fight. My father..." Toland trailed off slightly. He didn't know much about his father. A strong, smiling face. The chaplain greeting his mother at the door with a sorrowful look on his face. That yellow shoulder patch that he had found in the garage. "Helicopter pilot with the Air Cav sir. Shot down in '73. The farm was a lonely place growing up, with just my sister, mother and a few friends around. I got out of there in..."

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"...in the human year '1985', at the tender age of seventeen," Triune announced. "He enlisted as a private with the United States Army. Straight out of basic training, he was accepted into the 75th Ranger Regiment, elite infantry. In 1989, he led a squad of Rangers into the small country of Panama, as part of an operation to remove a dictator called 'Noriega'. He was decorated with the Bronze Star of Valour for his actions during this short conflict."

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"Your company commander cited your actions taking a Panamian gun post," the President sipped his coffee. "Noted your willingness to expose yourself to enemy fire in order to accomplish your objective. Seems to be a recurring theme in your files. In Desert Storm, you volunteered for advanced reconnaissance, skirmished quite a few times with some of Hussein's best units. You also wanted to go in with the spearhead that was going to take Baghdad."

"I had a buddy in the British SAS. He got captured during an op to blow up some Iraqi Scuds. They beat the ever living hell out of him, kept him as a prisoner for three months," Toland shrugged. "We could have gotten him out of there if we'd just gone for it."

"One of the many things I disagreed with my father about," a frown appeared on the President's face. "We should have removed Saddam from power when we had the chance. If he ever gives us another excuse...but we're getting off topic. Somalia, Mogadishu. You went into the city nearly twelve times, sometimes covert, sometimes not. Black Hawk Down?"

"I was with Lieutenant DiTomasso's chalk, 2-6," he confirmed. "It was a long day. Lost some good friends."

"And then you got your commission?"

"Colonel Lenau was doing some talent scouting, he liked what he saw," Bob looked over at the wire thin officer. "Did my time at West Point, then Fort Bragg. Been with 7th SFG ever since. Went back to The Mog in '96, helped the warlords finish off Aidid. My last major assignment was in China in '97. My team pulled that defector in off the beach and back down into the sub."

"Since then, you've been wandering the world. Did rotations with the SAS, GSG-9, helped the Russians train their new Spetznatz CT boys," the President seemed satisfied. "You were married?"

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"In 1994, he married a woman called Helen Franks. They had a little daughter named Beth, who's five years old now," Keira adopted a sympathetic tone. "Who knows? Captain Toland may survive to see her again, it all depends on even chance."

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"My wife was killed in a car crash two years ago," Toland stated flatly. "The brakes failed on a semi-trailer."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you sir. Shall we return to the mission?"

"Of course," POTUS was little surprised at Toland's abruptness. Still, every man dealt with grief in his own way. "Well I don't think there can be any doubt. You're the man to lead the team. I understand you have a list of who you'd like to take along?"

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Keira had the same list, and one by one, she presented the members of Toland's team. "Well, now that you know who we're hunting. We'll be bringing you updates as we go, but make sure you tune in to catch the season premier of 'Even Chance'. The game where the risks are heavy, but the prizes...infinite."

Blowing a kiss to the audience, she waltzed off the stage. Besli was waiting for her again, this time with a comm link in her hands. "It's Wrex."

Snatching the head piece off her secretary, Keira pressed it to her ear.

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"I got them all," Wrex spoke, grinning slightly as he looked at his 'team'.

Five hunters. The best in the galaxy.

Jivario Sitris. Salarian. Washed out of the Salarian military due to an uncontrollable red sand addiction. Had a tendency to burn his victims alive. The little bastard always acted nervous, jumpy for his next dose of the sand. Not even close to Wrex's league, but still an efficient killer. The viewers seemed to like his instability.

Kalki and Selv Dracos. Turian twins, brother and sister. Snipers who played the game for the thrill of the hunt. Unlike Sitris, Wrex didn't mind turning his back on them. They detested easy kills, if they wanted him dead, they'd let him know. Wrex couldn't help but like them, they had honour, in an age where honour was an unaffordable commodity.

Urdnot Xidam, Wrex's nephew. Fresh out of the Rite, he had survived his encounter with the Thresher Maw, acquiring a respectable set of scars in the process. The boy was eager to show his worth. What better way to prove it than by killing some of the most dangerous prey in the galaxy?

The fifth hunter was an old friend. Nicias T'Livia, a four centuries old asari. Back in the old days, she had run with Wrex and Aleena, rounding out their team. More than a hundred years of combat experience, plus two run ins with a Spectre, both of which she had barely escaped from. Lean, tall, athletic, with a mottled green skin colour that could melt into a jungle landscape. Her biotics were strong, but average for an asari. She preferred to do her killing with a shotgun or the two long, handmade _kravta _swords strapped onto her back. She was semi-retired now, hitting her matron stage had slowed her down a little bit. But the money that Wrex had offered was simply too good to refuse.

"I hope the foes you have picked are strong," he growled. "It would be a shame to assemble all these just to take on a pack of varren."

=Oh Wrex honey= Keira cooing came over the line. =You're just going to love who you're going to kill next=

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They were back on board the Gulfstream now. The Air Force stewardess brought them some drinks, the two Green Berets loosened their ties and allowed themselves to stare out the windows. Finally, Lenau spoke.

"What did you think of him?"

Bob considered his words carefully. "Smarter than the media thinks, but not as clever as Reagan."

"I don't think anybody could have the same smarts as Reagan," Lenau chuckled slightly. "But this guy has promise. He knows the value of decisive action, and he's feeling his way into the job. This Colombia thing was his brainchild, a good operational concept, but it needed some refinement. You're lucky, I think he likes you. Presidential influence can be a good thing for career building."

"Is that what you're getting?" Toland swivelled the scotch at the bottom of his glass. "Will it be General Lenau soon?"

"I'm coming up fast on mandatory retirement," Lenau yawned, the early morning flight was beginning to catch up with him. "There's a one star's position in the Operations department of SOCOM Headquarters that's opening up in a few months. I can still be useful for a few more years, then I'll retire on my terms and go play with my grandchildren. I recommend you get some sleep. It's going to be a busy few months till you deploy."

"We heading back to Bragg?"

"Negative, the CIA has a small compound in the Rockies that they're letting us borrow to get your guys acclimatised to the higher altitude. I still can't believe you let us talk you into this. After that incident in the Himalayas, you swore that you were never going into the hills again."

"Yes, but there won't be any Chinese spec ops guys tracking me up the side of a mountain this time," Bob muttered as he settled into the seat. "Should be a lot easier."

In one respect he was right, in the other, he couldn't have been more wrong. He just didn't know it yet.

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A/N: To the anonymous reviewer:

First: Yep, Quarian's are in exile, but she's on her pilgrimage and hasn't returned yet.

Second: By the power of plotholeDeusEx, I have dismissed that claim.

Third: Think Bear Grylls in Man Vs Wild, you'd have people from all walks of life, coming together in a creative environment to think up 'The Next Big Thing'

As always, rate and review if possible. See you guys next time, when we meet Toland's team in detail.


	4. Sweat, Pain, Exhaustion

Predators

Chapter Four: Sweat, Pain, Exhaustion

I don't own Bioware

"_Your training is a case of mind over matter. I don't mind, and you don't fucking matter."_

_-Unnamed Royal Marine Jungle Warfare Instructor_

**SOMEWHERE IN THE ROCKIES**

**COLORADO, UNITED STATES**

**OCTOBER 21****ST**** 0430 HOURS**

The compound had the theme of a military barracks, but the furnishings and materials were far too luxurious for the four rectangular buildings to be the pre-fabricated huts that the Army favoured. The thirty metre long, ten metre wide, single story, wooden walled barracks were made of good quality, polished timber. The mattresses in the bunk beds were wonderfully comfortable, the sheets nice and soft.

One hundred and fifty men could have resided comfortably in the sleeping areas, but only eighteen occupied them now. In the first building went seven of the Green Berets and three Colombian Special Forces troopers. The second was serving as a Mess Hall and kitchen, with a retired Navy chef gladly signing a confidentiality agreement to do a job that he had proudly done for thirty years, keeping hungry soldiers fed.

When she arrived, the CIA representative would bunk by herself in the third unit. This was partly to grant her some feminine privacy, but mostly because on the few occasions he had met her, she had struck Toland as a scary bitch.

In the last one, Lenau would stay for a few days with Toland, Lancero and the last of the staff. Toland had requested a PT instructor, a weapons specialist, and the pilot who would be working with them in Colombia. He had gotten them. Staff Sergeant Yancy Cogson, 10th Mountain Division, who looked like he could run anyone in the base off their feet. The weapons specialist, Captain Louis B. Sayers, 3rd Armoured Division, knew every detail about every weapon in the United States Arsenal. In essence, his role here would be as a glorified range master, but you never knew when someone might come in handy.

The next, and possibly the most critical person in the whole operation was Major Mohammed 'Strikeout' Ibn Saud, a childhood immigrant from Saudi Arabia. Toland had worked with him during Desert Storm and two black operations that both had scars and covert decorations that could never be revealed. He bragged to any woman who would listen that he was fiftieth in line for the throne for the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. His wingmen would always swear up and down to the sceptical female that this was true. Major Mo had a tendency to fly into the very gates of hell to pull troops out of danger. The least his drinking buddies felt they could do to repay him was helping him get laid.

Two months to prepare.

Whoever the CIA had picked to buy the land for their private training ground, he had clearly been born with an eye for terrain. For a seven mile area up and down the side of the mountain range, private property fences were erected. A firing range and a bloody tough obstacle course had been erected in the past week. There was a large gravel courtyard in the centre of the compound, dominated by a lonely flagpole, undressed now, but tomorrow the Stars and Stripes would be hauled up, to proudly wave in the breeze. It would act as a reminder to the troopers of what they were fighting for. What they were fighting to protect.

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"ALL RIGHT YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS! OUT OF THE RACK AND HIT THE DECK! WE HAVE PT IN FIVE MINUTES!" Staff Sergeant Cogson screamed at the sleeping soldiers. "WHAT'S THE MATTER? DREAMING 'BOUT YOUR WOMEN? JODIE'S CURLED UP NICE AND WARM WITH THEM RIGHT NOW!"

A boot was flung with unnerving accuracy, struck the PT Sergeant straight in the chest and knocked him back out the door, and flat onto his back on the gravel. "Piss off!" The voice of Carlos Estevez snarled from the bunk.

"I see that all that time with the Israelis didn't help improve your temper Bandito," Shepard remarked as he eased himself off the bunk and pulled his folded brown PT shirt, fatigue trousers and brown boots from the footlocker and began to dress himself.

"Nah, just left me with a low tolerance for BS," stretching his arms, Carlos followed Shepard's example. "Those cats knew how to get shit done. Kinda sad to come back, but how could I miss a chance to kick those fuckin' druggies in the balls?"

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**TRIUNE TOWER**

**ILLIUM, NOS ASTRA**

**R&D DEPARTMENT**

Kalya'Zorah was an exile. If not in name, then in spirit. For nearly five years, she had been away from the relatively brand new liveship _Rayya_, her birth ship. It had been horrid at first. Vagrant, they spat at her on the Citadel, on Sur'Kesh. Beggar and thief. If only they had seen what she had to offer. They could have profited immensely from her incredible talents. Kalya was modest, but she was also truthful. Like all members of Clan Zorah, she was fantastic at building, modifying and programming tech.

But they had passed by the opportunity to employ her, to give her a chance to find a good Pilgrimage gift. For a year she had wandered, living from day to day, place to place. Dangerous, exciting, rather fun sometimes, but nevertheless, wandering. On Ilium, her luck had changed. She had played the stock market with what few credits she had left and managed to score enough cash to set her up for a few weeks. She had attended a job interview with Besli, Keira Triune's assistant. The salarian had given her recommendation and Kalya had finally found her niche.

Overnight, she had found herself catapulted into the social elite of Nos Astra. Keira wasn't like the others. She didn't judge her by the enviro-suit she was permanently caged within, but by the brains and ingenuity that she frequently demonstrated. Keira was trendsetter. While she treated Kalya well, so did everybody else. The quarian had become more outgoing, she had become...popular.

And there had been just a bit of sweet revenge. The off duty asari detective, who had arrested Kalya for vagrancy on her first night in the city, was now working as a security guard in the lobby of Triune Tower. The quarian got a satisfied shiver up her spine every time the ex-uppity cop gritted her teeth and nodded politely at her when she came in for work each day. Probably wished she'd never taken offence when a young quarian girl had stumbled across her path that night three years ago.

Kalya had always planned to go back. To her clan, to the ship she had dreamed of joining, the _Marshi,_ the Migrant Fleet's newest R&D vessel. But the more time she spent on Ilium, the further away from home she felt. And one day...she didn't miss it anymore. Didn't miss the cramped quarters, the constant pall of death and misery hanging about like a blanket. Didn't miss her condescending sisters, her overbearing father or her sweet, but undeniably idiotic mother.

She had a new life on Ilium. A better life. A high paying job, the respect of her co-workers and the excitement of working on some of the newest tech in the galaxy. Hence the little demonstration she now had for Keira.

"It's a tiny camera, implanted in a small, airborne drone." She explained to her boss. "To anyone else, it'll be a tiny insect flittering about. Completely unnoticeable. But it'd be transmitting all sorts of footage back to us."

"Candid shots," Keira looked equally excited. "Deploy them before the season begins, allow them to send back pre-season film. We could put together a whole string of build up trailers."

"Precisely," Kalya grinned proudly. "I'll go with the team this time, help manage the tech. If we're going to stay undetected by these primitives, I'll need to be helping jam their ability to detect us."

"I do _love _the way you think," Keira grabbed Kalya in a hug. "I'm raising your salary, effective immediately. Come on, let's go have some drinks to celebrate."

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"_Airborne, airborne, have you heard? We're gonna jump from a big ass bird! Yessir, Airborne Rangers jump from planes! They ain't got no mother lovin' brains!"_ Cogson sang the cadence as the seventeen men wound their way back down the side of the hill. Beneath them stretched out a rolling valley, probably farmland. An idyllic spot to prepare for the hell of combat.

A hardened mountain trooper, Cogson had decided to start them off with a three mile run, just to get them accustomed to the thin air. Tonight, they'd do another run, this time with packs and rifles. Tomorrow, it would be five miles in the morning, five with full gear at night. By the end of the week, Cogson would be running them through ten and twelve mile runs, with full gear. The strike team would slowly work itself up to peak efficiency, then deploy at the top of their game.

For Toland, the run was no more of a challenge than relaxing in a hot bath. Once he got used to the air, his muscles did the job that they were exercised for. Lenau breathed a little heavier, but the Colonel was still light on his feet, despite his age. Major Saud and Captain Sayers both looked like they were going to collapse at any second. Well, a flyboy and a tank officer? What else could Bob have expected?

The strike team was having mixed reactions. The Colombians were used to the high altitude, but the Green Berets had muscles of sheer iron and willpower that could cut diamonds. Just the damn air slowing them down. For the first time, Toland was actually able to appreciate the team that he put together.

Hector Lancero, a good kid, loyal, dedicated. He'd be a hell of an officer someday, but for now, he might just slow down the more experienced soldiers. Senior Sergeant Diego de Vega, already nicknamed 'Zorro' for his distinctive last name. The man was a stone cold veteran. FARC, Panamanian guerrillas, drug mercenaries, he'd fought them all. The one real killer the liaisons had.

The Diaz brothers. Enthusiastic, motivated, ready to kick some ass. No combat experience, but plenty of training. He'd assign Shepard to keep an eye on them.

Now there was a real promising fella. Sergeant First Class Christopher Shepard, soon to be a Captain once he headed off to college and came back to get his commission. Shepard was the only one of the Green Berets who held the dubious honour of never having been in an official conflict zone. He had been in combat plenty of times, but never in a way that could be officially acknowledged, praised or recognised. If he had died the dust of Iran, the snow of the Himalayas or the murky rivers of North Korea, he would have passed on unmourned, save for his comrades and his family.

Starting off his career in the 25th Light Infantry Division at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, Shepard had quickly hopped through the ranks, making Corporal before his twentieth birthday. It was then he decided to sign up for the United States Special Forces. Quick thinker, sharp talker and fast runner, he had thought himself a shoe in.

He had washed out in the first week of selection. His company commander had gotten back a sore, tired and pissed off young trooper who couldn't figure out exactly which part of his body hurt the most.

In 1995, older, tougher and wiser, Shepard had gone back for another shot. This time he had made it, coming through with the reputation of a stubborn Irish bastard who would take whatever the instructor's threw at him. Assigned to 5th Special Forces Group for white/non-classified operations, he was noticed quickly and assigned under Toland's command for his first taste of combat in the street fighting of Mogadishu, wearing a filthy shirt and shorts, his curly hair shaved off, using an AK-47 instead of an M16. It had been the start of four years of friendship between the two men.

Next was the unit's two scouts. Master Sergeant Travis 'Ducky' Lowerson. Grenada, Panama, Kuwait, Mogadishu and a host of other places too black to even get a mention on his record. Five feet, eight inches tall, with a tendency to take short, careful steps when out on a mission, this led to his unflattering nickname. A master of fieldcraft, he could track anything, anywhere. He could find paths where none existed. He could locate hiding places in the middle of the desert.

Ducky always claimed that he had been conscripted, and what he really wanted was to wrap his twenty years and go back to his mother's farm. It was considered bad manners among the Green Berets to ask him why he had served with Delta Force for five years, been detached to the CIA Special Activities Division for two, and spent the rest transferring between the SFG's, looking for another fight.

Backing him up was Staff Sergeant Chester 'Bulldog' Clifton III. Son of aristocratic Southern landowners, Chester Clifton II and Andrea Clifton, his biggest concern in the year 1989 had been going to school dances and helping Pa with the harvest. In 1990, following his graduation from high school, he had decided he could get more girls by telling them he was in the Army, so, naturally, he drove his brand new Corvette to the recruiting station and joined up.

His parents had been furious, but with the assurance that he was only joining as a company clerk, and would be getting out in a few years and going to college, they had reluctantly agreed to let him go. Given the derogatory nickname, 'Dandy', he had spent Desert Storm nicely ensconced in a reach echelon headquarters, filling out stores request forms and making coffee. Returning to the States, he was enraged to discover that all the female attention was going to his buddies who had actually seen combat.

He then decided that a better way to get girls was to tell them he was a sniper with the Green Berets. A natural sharpshot, he had cruised through sniper school, then gone to Ranger School, then proudly handed in his application for Special Forces. The other clerks had laughed their asses off at him when he got on the bus for Fort Bragg. They had stopped laughing when he stepped off the bus a few months later, looking like a bat just out of Hell, but with a green beret perched atop his head.

His parents had disinherited him. And he still rivalled Strikeout for the number of times he completely failed at smooth talking women. But he was the best long range sniper Toland had ever met. With his Barrett M82A1 .50 cal sniper rifle, Bulldog would wait, sometimes for days, holding his fire until the perfect shot was available. It was said that while Ducky could track anyone on Earth, Bulldog could hide from them.

Sergeant's Mickey 'Mercy' Byrne and Sean 'Rage' Byrne were a pair of Irish-American twins from Baltimore. Only twenty four, with flaming red hair and identical green eyes, with shoulders broad enough to hold up a Jeep, they were the youngest and largest of the Green Berets. Mercy had been a mechanic's apprentice, well on his way to owning his own business. Rage instead spent his youth as a literature student, well versed in poetry and the finer things in life. Unfortunately, Rage had made the mistake of staying late in class to discuss the Odyssey with his literature professor.

Professor Diane Shaw, Baltimore University. Petite figure, blonde hair, with such alluring eyes.

Sean claimed he was seduced, the professor claimed that he initiated it. Toland would have bet even money that the ever innocent Catholic kid had still been thinking they would be discussing the trials of Homer's hero right up until the moment that his teacher had dropped on her knees and...well, that was something he didn't need to think about except when he was extremely bored. Still, it wasn't Sean's fault that the Vice-Dean of the University had chosen that particular moment to walk in.

Mercy had sympathetically given his brother a roof over his head after his expulsion for 'sexual misconduct'. That roof had been there right up until the moment that the local cops ran them both out of town after Mickey started dating the daughter of the local police Chief.

After enlistment, they served with the 101st Airborne, working as peacekeepers in various theatres of operations. Rage had been noted for his ability to settle disputes between warlords in the many countries of Africa where UN intervention was required. Special Forces became their career path when that got boring, Mercy's idea. Generally, the best place to look for them was wherever explosions were going off. The two were drawn to trouble like flies. Their nicknames were more ironic than truthful. Mickey was called Mercy because his enemies could expect none from him. Sean was called Rage due to unfailing good humour. It took a lot to make him angry, but when he did, it was comparable to the Hulk being unleashed.

While the whole team was cross trained with explosives, Staff Sergeant Carlos 'Bandito' Estevez was the acknowledged in house master. From blowing through aircraft hulls to starting off an avalanche, he always had the amounts of C4 exactly right, down to the last millimetre. Foul mouthed, foul tempered, a former member of the foremost street gang in LA, he had run with men who believed in a futile code of gang honour, down to the tattoos and collective rules they lived by.

Sensing that there was no future in drive by shootings, or the burgeoning drug trade, Carlos had given a friend his Tec-9 and hot rod, then walked to the recruitment centre. Low on his enlistment quota, the recruiter had reluctantly agreed. The Army had invested a lot in him. They allowed him the opportunity to complete his high school education, the chance to get his girlfriend out of the ghetto, and the courage to propose to her. With three kids of his own, Bandito could be relied upon for clear thinking, and lethal precision.

Carlos had cross-trained with some of the world's best fighters. German KSK mountain warfare school, British SAS hostage rescue, Australian Commandoes, and many others. It had honed an almost supernatural ability that Toland would rely upon to sniff out any ambush that the team walked into. He had a sixth sense for danger and traps. No one caught Carlos by surprise.

The last man on the team was the medic. 1st Sergeant Jack 'Pixie' Andropov, the son of a pair of ballet dancers who had scurried out of the Soviet Union in the 1960's. Determined to live the American dream, his mother had given dancing lessons, while his father worked as a lumberjack, earning their way into American society. Pixie's childhood had been poor, but happy, the small house ringing with the sound of his mother singing, his father cheerfully laughing with his friends.

Andrei Andropov, Jack's father, had gotten his reward for his hard work. He finally took over the timber company he had worked with for so many years. He was determined all his children should have a college education. Jack's eldest brother had gone to the US Air Force Academy, eventually flying a C-130 Hercules in the ill fated attempt to rescue the American hostages from Iran in 1979. A tragic helicopter accident had ended Ryan Andropov's short career.

Halfway through medical school, Jack had dropped out and joined the military, assigned to the 7th Light Infantry Division as a medic. A four war beast like Ducky, he had treated soldiers all over the globe. Some, he had saved. Others had been beyond his help. Not a violent man by inclination, Jack's personal feelings about killing in the line of duty were simple. He had six kids of his own now, two of them in college. He intended to see the rest of them through.

These were Toland's men. Eleven of them who he would take into harm's way. He would be responsible for getting them back safely to their homes, to their wives and children. The eternal burden of command.

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Finally, the pace slowed from a run, into a slow jog, then into a brisk march as they warmed down from their exercise. The first rays of dawn were beginning to creep over the horizon. Strikeout, Lenau and Cogson moved toward the Mess Hall, where the smell of bacon frying was wafting out the door. The strike team and Sayers went for the firing range, where the teams personal weapons were awaiting them.

Shepard, Pixie, Carlos and the Colombian NCO's would use M16A2 rifles, Carlos and the Diaz brothers would sling M203 grenade launchers underneath. Carlos would also carry a Remington 870 shotgun with a shortened barrel and the stock removed. All of the riflemen were accustomed to using M9 Beretta handguns, with the exception of Pixie, who carried a Desert Eagle chambered for the lighter .357 cartridge.

Ducky and Bulldog would have the team's silenced weapons. Identical MP5-SD3 sub machine guns, using sub-sonic rounds that wouldn't travel far, but would definitely kill the targets if they hit them. Bulldog would also carry the team's heavy sniper weapon, his beloved Barrett .50 cal. Both the scouts possessed an identical disdain for the Beretta 9mm, preferring the heavier USP .45 for the close in jungle fighting.

Mercy and Rage were hefting the squad's short barrelled M-60 Light Machine Guns, with new laser sights fitted to them. The 7.62mm rounds would be the only fire support the group had available. Both had sidearms, but neither thought they would have to use them. Two M88 light anti-tank weapons would be slung onto Mercy's back during the deployment, just in case they needed some heavy artillery.

Toland and Lancero, as the unit's officers, would carry M4A1 Carbines. The light weapons were perfect for close quarters fighter, and would reduce the weight that they had to hump through the scrub. Toland would also carry the unit's marksman's rifle, an M21 with advanced optics, that every man in the squad was rated 'expert' on.

Bob also had his beloved Colt .45. The name '_Sally_' was engraved in elegant calligraphy along the side of the black pistol.

This morning was a refresher course. Starting off with paper roundels, bullseyes were neatly punched with rifles and pistols. Then combat targets were switched in. The M60's sawed them in half, headshots and heartshots were the norm, not the exception. Toland dramatically advanced on his target, planting a double tap right in the centre of the forehead.

Every man an exceptional shot, with the will to use their skills. And in two months, they would take those skills to the enemy, and they would leave any thoughts of mercy behind them. They would descend as the righteous sword of justice. Archangels, come to deliver a righteous judgement on them.

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The Hummer pulled up just outside the firing range. A slim woman with iron grey hair, dressed in black fatigues, carrying two heavy cases, and walking with a slight limp, stepped out of the car and into the range area.

She walked straight up to Toland. "The name's Alice. You wanted to see me?"

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**A/N: Next chapter we meet Alice. For those of you who know Tom Clancy books, she's essentially a female John Clark.**

**Something that irritates me is that people consider soldiers to be isolated, solitary people who live their lives only for violence. They're not. They have families they want to get back to, people who love them.**

**Remember, all subscriptions and no reviews make Made Nightwing a dis-encouraged author :D See you guys again in a few days with Chapter Five.**


	5. Down the Rabbit Hole

Predators

Chapter Five: Down the Rabbit Hole

I don't own Bioware

"_Beware the fury of a patient man."  
-John Dryden_

**BALTIMORE**

**1970**

"_You've been a busy girl Alice," the tall man looked at her with an expression of compassionate understanding. In his hands he held a shiny revolver. "Do you know what this is?"_

"_It's a stainless steel Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver with an eight inch barrel," the twenty year old girl sitting in the chair glared back at him with defiance. "Chambered in .44 Magnum."_

"_Whose gun is it?"_

"_It belonged to my eldest brother. He was one of the original SEALs sent to Vietnam."_

"_Was?"_

"_He died in a firefight five years ago. He was rescuing a shot down pilot. The pilot got away, but the gooks captured, tortured and then executed him."_

"_I see," the man's stare became almost unbearable. "You know how to use this firearm?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Who taught you?"_

"_My second brother. He was a Green Beret. Served with the MACV SOG."_

"_What happened to him?"_

"_Died during the Tet offensive. Defended an evacuation point long enough for a hundred civilians to escape."_

"_I'm sorry for your loss," he seemed almost sincere. "What about your third brother?"_

"_Helicopter pilot. He was shot down ten weeks ago," a few tears leaked from the corners of Alice's dark brown eyes._

"_You have any other family?"_

"_My mother and my little sister. Dad died in a car crash a few years back. Mom's got cancer, she hasn't got long left to live."_

"_And your sister?" He asked the question regretfully._

"_You have to know..."_

"_Just answer the question Alice," he broke her off gently. "What happened to your sister Kylie? Your twin sister."_

"_She had a boyfriend, he was a nice guy, but he owed money to some bad people," her voice cracked. "He was trying to pay them back, but these guys wanted more money than he could pay. So they asked him to start dealing drugs at his college. He said no."_

"_What did they do then?"_

"_They broke into his apartment one night. My sister was there. First they...they did things to her. They made him watch. Then they..." Alice broke down crying. "They strangled her, right on the bedroom floor. Then they shot him."_

"_When was this?"_

"_Eight weeks ago. The cops started an investigation, but they haven't found the killers yet."_

"_But they won't find them, will they Alice? They're lying dead in the basement of that old apartment they were using as a safehouse. All four of them, the same four that raped and killed your sister. Dead from multiple gunshots. When the police find their bodies, they're going to trace the ballistics back to this handgun. Why is that?"_

"_Because that gun killed them."_

"_Who fired the gun?"_

"_I did," her tears were drying up now. Her cheeks were puffy, her eyes red and swollen. Defiance re-entered her expression. "I killed them all."_

"_And not just them," the man's voice had a touch of admiration in it. "You've killed eight other men over the past six weeks. You interrogated each of them, finding out just where you could find the men that murdered your sister. You're a very strong woman Alice, able to subdue three of them without a gun, killing two of them with that KBAR you bought from the surplus store."_

"_They were all bad men," determination was her only emotion. She was digging back into her internal reserves. "They pushed that filth all over the streets. They're hurting this city. I hurt them back."_

"_And I agree with that," he nodded. "I've humped across the back woods of Quang Tri and Ia Drang. That war isn't sanctioned or legal either. Your actions were entirely justified in my opinion. But the police won't see it that way. Neither will the jury, even though they'll be sympathetic. You'll do life for mass murder. You can't just kill twelve people and get away with it."_

"_I did the crime, I'll do my time."_

"_And that's very noble of you. Tell me Alice, what did you feel when you killed those men?"_

"_Nothing." Not entirely true. When she had killed those last four, it had been savage, vindictive pleasure, knowing that the scum who killed her sister were going to burn in hell._

"_Interesting," he sat down opposite her. "I have a proposal for you Alice. A way for you to repay the debt you now owe to society. One that makes use of your...willingness to serve justice."_

"_You're not a cop?" Surprise was now visible. He chuckled with amusement._

"_Hardly. My profession is considerably more dangerous, but quite rewarding. I'm part of a small unit of brave men that work to prevent the conflicts that are kept out of sight from the rest of the world. We tried to prevent Vietnam, but even we weren't good enough to take on the whole NVA."_

"_Who are you?"_

"_We were originally formed as the Office of Strategic Service's striking arm. In 1947, we were reconvened as the soldiers of the Central Intelligence Agency. Under Eisenhower, we became a fighting force all on our own. We're the Special Activities Division. And we want you to be our first female operative."_

_Alice shot out of her chair. "I can't be a soldier," she protested wildly._

"_Why not? What makes a soldier is his...or her will to fight. The will to take a life in order to save many more. You possess that will. I fought my way through a world war, slugged it out with the Chinese in Tibet and Korea, and up until recently have been slithering through the swamps in Vietnam. I'm getting old, I need to find young blood to replace me. You are just one of several candidates for SAD."_

"_It's a get out of jail free card?"_

"_Pretty much. You'll stay with us for a while. New name, new identity. A female of about your age, height and build was killed in a house fire yesterday morning. If you decide to come with me, we'll put her body in this room and burn this house to the ground. If not, you can take your chances with the police."_

_Alice stared at the window. Did she want to spend her life in prison? Or leave her life behind entirely? The choice was fairly simple to make. "What's your name?"_

"_You can call me Pope. Alexander Pope."_

"_Okay Pope," Alice turned to face him. "I'll give it a shot."_

"_Great. Alice Donovan just died. You are now Alice Smith" Pope smiled, reversing the .44, he passed it back to Alice. "Due to recent government cutbacks, we request that newcomers bring their own weapons."_

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**CAMBODIA**

**1972**

"_You're the CIA rep?" the Marine captain stared at her with obvious surprise. "You're Panther?"_

"_Yeah," Alice tended to ignore the looks she got from the frontline troops. "You Captain Bailey?"_

_The blonde officer nodded. "One and the same. I thought you'd be taller."_

"_I get that a lot," Alice pulled back the slide on her CAR-15. "Is the village leader waiting for me?"_

"_Yes ma'am, do you have his weapons?"_

"_Ten cases of M-16's," she stared out over the rise of the jungle. "Let's get to work."_

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**OCTOBER 18****TH**** 2000**

**SOMEWHERE IN VIRGINIA**

Alice sat on the porch of the farmhouse, watching her ten year old son playing with her four year old grandson and two year old granddaughter. Her mind wandered back to that time, twenty eight years ago.

That had been her first time out, deep in the jungles of Cambodia. She had spent nearly a year there the first time, punctuated with visits right up until 1976, when that particular part of Asia was finally given up as a lost cause. By that time, Alice was married and heavily pregnant with her first child.

Captain Tom Bailey, the young Marine Corps captain. Her first and only love. His shy courtship had lasted nearly three years before he finally proposed. The CIA had recruited him out of the Corps and straight into SAD after the wedding. They had named their daughter Kylie, born on the 7th of December, 1976. She had her father's eyes and her mother's temperament.

In the 1980's, Bailey and Alice had been sent to Afghanistan to train the mujahedeen in the use of Stinger missiles. It had been a long and lonely year spent in a mountain cave, teaching the suicidally brave youths how not to get themselves killed fighting the Soviets. It had gotten cold as well; the nights in Afghanistan were long. Alice had found herself pregnant after thirteen months. Jacinta Bailey would be the second child in the Bailey family.

Even though she and Tom had been shipped back to America, she had stayed in contact with the boys. Some of them, she helped immigrate to America when the Taliban emerged and began to crush all Western friendly elements in the country. She had never gone back, someday that might change.

Afghanistan had been the Bailey's last permanent assignment together. Transferred to Camp Peary as instructor's, they finally had the chance to be real parents to their children. For the first time in ten years, Alice had enjoyed a semi-normal life.

When Ronald Reagan authorised the invasion of Grenada, Alice had been pressed back into service, sent into the country to scout out the terrain and feed back intel to her handlers. She had conducted her duties efficiently and without casualties. However, come '89, she had volunteered to go in with the first waves during Operation Just Cause.

Along with a team of SEALs, she had attacked and destroyed all of Noriega's avenues of escape, including his private aeroplane and yacht. Her code name of Panther was well earned. After she returned from the war zone, she and Tom had been given two weeks in Hawaii to celebrate. Nine months later, Alexander Bailey was born. They had debated retirement but decided to wait a little while longer.

Desert Storm had come, Tom went in as a recon scout with the Green Berets, Alice was dropped into Baghdad, dressed in a burqa and collecting all sorts of valuable intel. A Republican Guard had attempted to take his pleasure with her in a dark alley. She had left him lying where he fell, snapped neck and all.

During her three times in Mogadishu, she had been noted for the daring risks she took in the attempts to capture or kill Aidid. When he had finally died in '96, she had returned home just in time for the birth of her first grandson.

It had not been the life she had dreamt of as a little girl, but Alice Bailey was well content with her achievements. Tom still instructed periodically at 'The Farm', but nowadays they both were happy to take care of the grandkids occasionally on the thirty acres that the CIA had presented its darling husband and wife team for almost thirty years of faithful service.

She had sworn that she would never go back into the field after her last job in Hanoi went sour just a year earlier. But the caller had mentioned one fateful word.

Drugs.

For thirty years, she had been plagued with a slightly guilty conscience. Not that she had killed those twelve dealers. No, her guilt was that she hadn't done more. That she hadn't tracked down the suppliers, the shippers, the men who collected the lion's share of the profits. And now the CIA wanted to call her back into the fight, going down and killing drug lords in Colombia.

They knew she wouldn't be able to say no.

Pushing herself out of the rocking chair, she walked back into the house. Tom was in the kitchen, fixing lunch for the kids. Going to a small cupboard in the hallway, Alice typed in a combination and pulled a box from the safe. Back in the kitchen, she opened it, and removed the eight inch Smith and Wesson. Tom raised an eyebrow.

"Back to battle one last time Panther?" he enquired mischievously.

"Give me this last one Tom," she pulled her husband into an embrace. "One last chance to finish what I started thirty years ago."

He softly kissed her. "I knew from the second I saw you in that jungle that you were the woman for me. I knew you would never abandon a mission once you had set your heart on it. Go get 'em darling."

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**SOMEWHERE IN THE ROCKIES**

**COLARADO, UNITED STATES**

**OCTOBER 21****ST****, 0730 HOURS**

"You're Alice?" Shepard looked incredulous. "I thought you'd be taller."

"Real funny kid, now go play with your toys. I have to have a discussion with your Captain," Alice replied scathingly. Shepard shrugged and turned back to the firing line.

"Agent Bailey," Toland nodded respectfully. "Good to see you again ma'am."

"Likewise Captain," Alice shook his hand. "Forget the Agent crap, just call me Alice."

"Alice," Toland repeated. "OK then, call me Bob. Don't go too hard on Shepard. He was on my team in The Mog back in '96."

"I appreciate the job you Special Forces fellas did," Alice indicated the door leading outside. "I feel like breakfast. Care to join me?"

"Certainly," Toland beckoned Shepard over. "Sergeant, have them clean their weapons then report down to the Mess Hall."

"Roger that sir."

In a few minutes Alice and Toland were walking downhill toward the barracks area. "You know they rent this place out to the deer hunters during the summer?" Alice had refused Toland's offer to carry her bags. "Sometimes use it as a vacation resort for CIA staffers. Nice place to come when you want to get away from things."

"Or prepare for a combat zone," Toland was slightly amused. The woman did not appear physically intimidating at all. But there had to be a lot more to her than what was on the surface. Privately, he wondered how many men had paid the price for underestimating her. "You bring your own gear?"

"One CAR-15 combat carbine with suppressor, one M40A1 with suppressor, chambered in .308, and one eight inch Smith."

"A .44 Magnum?" Toland gave a short laugh. "Clearly, you've watched too many Clint Eastwood's."

"I prefer Lethal Weapon to Dirty Harry," Alice's tone was dangerously light. "I suppose you use one of those useless nine millimetres?"

"No thanks, I use a .45 Colt," Toland produced his handgun. "Makes nice round holes in my targets, I can write my name with it at fifty yards and the kickback doesn't blow my arm off. Doesn't an eight inch barrel get bulky?"

"Occasionally, but the extra accuracy is worth it," they entered the mess hall just in time to see Lenau exit, he smiled knowingly at Alice before he left. "Your boss over there used to use a .50 Colt Python. That's just overkill, one shot from that thing could tear a man in half."

"You worked with the Colonel?"

"Russian missile base that they claimed was disarmed. We blew it up."

"And they say the Cold War never got hot."

"Indeed," Alice filled up a bowl with diced fruit. "So I understand that you're the bastard that asked for me to get dragged out of retirement."

"You were the best one for the job. The only Agency asset I've ever met that didn't crap him or herself when the bullets started flying," Toland flipped a set of eggs and a side of bacon onto his plate. He was only thirty two, didn't need to worry about cholesterol just yet. "What's the matter, lost your sense of adventure?"

"Let me just stop you right there," Alice paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth. "Bob, you were born in 1968, which literally means I've been doing this shit since you were playing with your toy trains. When you were an altar server at your local parish, I was hiking through Cambodia, watching a brave people being slaughtered for their loyalty to America. For thirty years I've done this shit. I have kids and grandkids now. You have kids Bob?"

"One daughter."

"Good, 'cos you start seeing things differently once you hit forty. Family becomes more important to you. I'm doing this mission to lay the ghosts of the past to rest. Don't expect anything else."

"Just as long as I can count on you."

"You can count on me to do everything I can to help you bring your guys back alive," Alice poured a cup of coffee. "But when I die, I want it to be in bed, with my children and grandchildren around me. At the end of the day Bob, the one good thing we can really do for our kids is give them some promise for the future."

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**SOMEWHERE IN COLOMBIA**

**MELNDEZ CARTEL COMPOUND**

"A lot of fat to be trimmed brother," Pablo shook his head as he scanned through the record books. "Some of our 'tenants' are not paying their dues, some of our lieutenants are getting fat, and profits will slump unless we take care of it."

"What do you suggest?" Enrique liked watching his brother think. The brains of the family, Pablo would one day run the whole business side of the Melendez cartel. Enrique would stay as the face and the broker. His charisma was something Pablo lacked. They had come to an agreement years ago.

"We start sending a few friendly invitations, warning them pay what they owe. If they do not, we do what father did twenty years ago."

"That sent a message didn't it?" Enrique nodded wistfully. A young man back then, his father's wrath on discovering his lieutenants plotting against him had been something almost Biblical. The traitors had their entire families killed, their wives taken in front of them. Such was justice in the Cartel. The traitors themselves had been skinned, or roasted alive, or fed to the sharks just off shore. "We don't do that sort of thing nowadays Pablo. We are 'civilized'."

"It is weakness," his brother replied with scorn. "One day, the _norteamericanos_ will encourage the government to attack us, or even send soldiers after us themselves. We must be ready for that day."

"The day the _norteamericanos _grow big enough balls to try something like that out, will be the day I lose my own," Enrique laughed heartily. "As you wish Pablo. I will talk with the Council about strengthening our bonds with the mercenaries and the peasants."

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**TRIUNE TOWER**

**NOS ASTRA, ILIUM**

**BOTTOM FLOOR**

"What is this Uncle?" Xidam cautiously ran a finger over the device.

"The turians call it, 'The Extinguisher,'" Wrex was delighted with his nephew's response. "It's designation is the Type 54 Individual Heavy Weapons Unit. Fires twenty thousand rounds a minute, you'll run through a fresh ammo block every thirty seconds. Take good care of it."

"Oh I will," Xidam hefted the six barrelled mini-gun. "I must test it immediately."

"Buying toys for children now?" Keira approached Wrex from behind. The hunters had spent the day training, and were now split up across the city. The salarian was probably looking for his next hit of red sand, the turians were sparring in their quarters, T'Livia was shopping for presents for her own offspring.

"He wishes to test his strength against the humans, so I will give him the heaviest weapon to stop him from charging headlong into battle," Wrex countered. "He must learn patience, and that is the proper way to teach him."

"So wise," Keira laughed. "Tell me Wrex. Why do you waste your energy on this? Why not go back to your home planet, unit the plans and fight for your species existence?"

Wrex had to look back at her with curiosity, he was surprised to find she was wearing a serious expression. He paused to consider his answer. "I have no reason to."

"You know, these humans are more dangerous than you would think," Keira almost sounded apprehensive. "They plan, they learn, they counter. You might have met your match."

"Against frail pyjaks like those?" he snorted. "Unlikely. They spend too much time preparing. We must wait two months while they train for their mission. I dislike waiting."

"I know darling," Keira patted him sympathetically on his hump. "But I promise you, they will be worth the wait."

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**A/N: This chapter practically wrote itself. I have no idea why. It just came to me.**

**Obviously, I won't be going through two months of training. Prepare for TIMEWARP!**


	6. Why We Fight

Predators

Chapter Six: Why We Fight

I don't own Bioware

"_The citizen to defend his home will, by necessity and inclination, fight with more valour and daring than a mercenary paid to accomplish the same task."_

_-Niccolo Machiavelli_

**SOMEWHERE IN THE ROCKIES**

**COLARADO, USA**

**DECEMBER 24****th****, 2000**

"_Hey there Captain what do ya see? This little run ain't shit to me!"_ Staff Sergeant Carlos Estevez sang out as the column slowed down to a walking pace. Twelve miles, with a fifty pound pack, fully loaded combat webbing, and personal weapons. The pace had been torturous, but no one had dropped out. Cogson, the sadistic PT instructor, was looking worn to the bone. The others were swaying about; the M16A2 in Carlos' hands felt like a chunk of pig iron.

The only one who didn't seemed fazed by the marathon was that damned CIA rep. Alice was breathing slightly harder than usual, and had broken a decent sweat, but was otherwise rock steady.

'_How does a woman hit fifty and be able to run men three decades her junior off their feet?' _Carlos privately wondered. Were all the tales of CIA experiments true? Or did she just do spirit crushing jogs like these for personal recreation? The second was more likely, but harder to accept.

"Hit the showers, then grab some chow," Toland finally recovered enough breath to issue his next set of orders. "You can hit the sack early if you want to. We won't be doing any drills tonight. Anyone who feels like a bit of extra pistol practice can join me on the firing range after dinner."

They'd all join in of course. In the regular infantry, pistols were just for show. The real work was done with the business end of a rifle, carbine or machine gun. In the Special Forces however, pistol marksmanship was something to be desired, attained and perfected. No kid ever really forgot the John Wayne movies of childhood, and the youthful wish to be as good a shot as 'The Duke'. Never mind that the actual handguns of the Old West had been woefully inaccurate, and that the actor had done his shooting with blank rounds and a few stuntmen.

Special Operations troopers knew that there would eventually come a time, sooner or later, when the bullets in your primary weapon were exhausted. When that happened, you would need to use a secondary weapon to allow yourself to disengage from the enemy, or finish off a cowering opponent. The members of the strike force using M9 Beretta's knew how to fill the air with the 9mm projectiles, discharging the fifteen round magazines in seconds. Toland, Pixie and Bulldog favoured precision, sending .45 and .357 rounds downrange with almost as much accuracy as you would expect from a sniper rifle.

Alice, however, had shown herself to be more than anyone expected. With an assault rifle, she wiped the floor with the disbelieving riflemen. With a sniper rifle, she had thrashed Bulldog's ass up and down the firing line. And with her eight inch Smith & Wesson .44, she had scored a perfect fifty out of fifty, besting Toland by two points. It was the first time he had lost a pistol match since Warrant Officer Howe of Delta Force, had taken him all the way on the firing range at Mogadishu.

The Green Berets were now mounted firmly on the edge of the knife, honed so fine that a thread draped across it would sever. The Colombians had earned back the swagger that had been beaten out of them over the first month of training. Every operator was at his peak, fully prepared in body and mind. There was nothing left to prepare for. Explosives, camouflage, stealth, they had practiced every kind of warfare by night and day. A full week had been spent polishing up on escape and evasion techniques. They were completely acclimatised to high altitude conditions.

Living, breathing instruments of precision violence.

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"You leave in two days." Major General Waters informed Toland as he exited the shower. Colonel Toland and Samantha McInery were waiting behind him. "You're inserting via high altitude drop. The Colombians have asked that we don't use military aircraft, so you're going to jump out of the luggage bay of a Pan Am 747."

"That's going to be a tad uncomfortable," Bob finished doing up the buttons on his fatigue jacket. "That was how they eventually got me, Strikeout and Shepard out of Tibet, crammed down there among the suitcases. Security precautions?"

"The pilot's ex-Air Force, and the luggage handlers for that flight will be from CIA," Sam answered. "It'll be about a four hour flight till your jump. We don't have any option but to try for a HALO insertion."

"HALO's a big risk on a job like this," Toland turned to face her. "Somebody breaks a leg and we're stuck down in that jungle until Strikeout gets there with the chopper. I'd feel better going in by submarine. Not much can go wrong with a sub insertion."

"Too slow," Sam countered. The woman was brooking any BS from a Special Forces meathead. "All our assets are in place for you to go in on the night of the 26th. Strikeout is flying his Blackhawk down to Panama tonight, the flight time has been set in place and the Colombian Attorney General just countersigned his agreement to the operation with the President."

"Fine," Bob was curt with his answer. "You have that list of targets?"

"Our local assets and satellite imagery shows various airfields and mobile drug mixing areas in a sixty mile AO," Sam passed him a map. "Your choice as to what you hit first. Any planes you don't destroy on the ground, our Air National Guard boys will get."

"One more thing," Toland directed his voice to Waters. "I want to fly my men back to Bragg tonight. I want them to have at least forty eight hours off."

"Absolutely not," Sam shook her head. "We can't risk breaking operational security."

"These men been in isolation for two months, they're going into the field for at least another four. The least you could let them do is spend Christmas with their families," Toland continued, undeterred by Sam's protests. "They know to keep their mouths shut about the mission."

Waters hesitated for a second, and then nodded. "Alright Captain. But they have be ready for duty come morning on the 26th. Because that plane leaves the tarmac at 2230 hours, with or without your team."

"Understood," Toland snapped to attention and saluted. "Thank you General."

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**NOS ASTRA SPACEPORT**

**ILIUM**

"How long will it take to get to this planet anyway?" Sitris grumbled as he took his seat on the Triune Enterprise transport. "Because I get very nervous when I'm cooped up in tight spaces."

"I'll flush you out the airlock if your suffering becomes too unbearable," Kalki snarled at the salarian. "Is space big enough for you?"

Selv giggled at her brother's words. "Indeed salarian. I hear that space walking without a suit is a very..._liberating_ experience."

T'Livia and Wrex sat toward the back of the transport, the asari sharpening her swords, Wrex cleaning his shotgun. Xidam had asked to sit in the cockpit, eager to learn how to fly himself. Now it was time for two old friends to finally have a few seconds to themselves.

"How are your daughters Nicky?"

"Alia has just been accepted for the University of Serris," Nicias smiled proudly. "She will be studying xeno-biology. Serali is still happily tending to her garden. How wonderful it is to be young in these times."

"I was sorry to hear about your mate," Wrex shifted uncomfortably. "He was a good fighter. For a salarian anyway."

"Serali misses her father a lot," his friend's face saddened slightly. "Gatsin was at peace when he went. At the funeral, Alia stood up and said he was the best father she could ever hope for. Shocked his family no end. His dalatress never approved of our marriage, but his sisters were very sweet. He was never in line for a breeding contract, so they were glad he had children of his own to care for."

"He was more honourable than that bitch who ran off and left you nursing Alia, too ashamed to claim a pureblood as her own child," the krogan snorted. Hanging out with asari for one too many centuries had given him a slightly unique insight into their culture. "Gatsin worshiped the very ground you walked on, ever since that first firefight on Omega."

"Maybe in a few centuries, I'll be ready to find another mate," Nicias held one of the blades up into the light, examining the edge. "Until then, I will continue to raise my children the best way I know how."

"I shouldn't have asked you to come. This hunt might get dangerous."

"It's alright Wrex," she sheathed the sword in one clean stroke. "Retirement gets slightly monotonous at times."

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Up in her private room on the transport, Kalya'Zorah was chatting with Keira. "Yes ma'am. I have the first batch of footage coming in from our scout ship. The mini-camera drones work perfectly."

"Fantastic!" Keira clapped her hands together. "We can launch the pre-season trailers immediately. I'll get them put together right now. Take care darling."

"Don't worry Keira," Kalya laughed. "I'm not the one going on the hunting trip. I'll be sitting nice and safe up in orbit."

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**CITADEL**

**C-SEC HEADQUARTERS**

**CHIEF INVESTIGATOR'S OFFICE**

Romus ran a three clawed hand over his fringe. This was pointless. Unless Triune had done something to directly piss off the Council, there was no way to touch her. Intergalactic extradition laws needed a complete revision, but there was no judge brave enough to touch that particular issue.

Vakarian glanced at his wall clock. Well after the middle of night shift. Chali would be in bed by now, after waiting up several hours for him. So would Darik and Pel. His family life was being destroyed by this case, but he couldn't let it go. There was too much investigator's spirit in him. His wife and sons would have to understand the need he had to bring this injustice to a stop, before she started sending her hunters after something other than primitives.

On an impulse he flicked on his holoscreen. There she was again, prancing about, dressed like a cheap whore you might find in the Lower Wards. Probably had the same set of morals too.

"_Yes folks," _she rambled on. _"Just a few more days before we begin our hunt. But before that, let's explore the lives of our prey. This next feature is brought to you by Sharis Images, the best in high resolution videos."_

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**FORT BRAGG**

**MARRIED PERSONNEL HOUSING AREA**

**DECEMBER 25****TH****, 2000.**

**0023 HOURS**

Carlos slipped in the front door of the modest one story building that the army leased to him and his family. Elizabeth, Little Maria and baby Rosa would all be asleep by now. Maria Estevez would have chased the children away from the Christmas tree and the presents she was wrapping. She stood there now, gazing in bewilderment at the miniature racetrack set before her. Just as beautiful as the day he first met her. Him a high school dropout hanging out around the skate park, her a senior, determined to get her college degree despite the poverty of the outer Los Angeles suburbs.

The only one who had seen past the tattoos and the wannabe tough guy personality that he hid behind. Eternally faithful, patient and so kind to him. The one who held him when he woke up screaming, roaring the name of a long dead friend, gunned down in a drive by, or in a slightly justified, but no less illegal, insertion into foreign territory. Hers was the only voice that soothed him; hers were the only hands that calmed him. And oh, how he loved her for that.

Lowering his bags onto the floor without a sound, Carlos sneaked up behind his wife, spun her around and seized her in a passionate embrace, his mouth meeting hers in a passionate embrace. At first she struggled, surprised by his sudden appearance, then she melted into him as she realised who he was.

"_Bambino_," he murmured as he slid his hands up the back of her shirt, feeling her shiver slightly as his cold fingers sought the sensitive points on her spine. She was the only woman for him. He could never swap her, never cheat on her. He would sooner eat a bullet than betray her like that.

"Carlos, not in the living room like this," Maria had to stop herself from purring with contentment. She still had all these toys to assemble after all. "We'll wake the children up."

"Let them wake," Carlos nuzzled his mouth against the join of her neck and left shoulder. "There is nothing wrong with their parents being in love."

"Always so romantic after your trips," she teased. "Getting practice with someone else?"

"How is it possible for a man to sleep with a gargoyle when a goddess awaits him at home?" Easing her back onto the couch, he untucked her blouse and slowly undid the first button at the bottom of the garment. "Two months in isolation does not turn a man into a monk, but it does give him time to rehearse."

She pushed him away with a giggle. "Unfortunately my Romeo, you have chosen to return on a night when other marital duties must be carried out." She pointed at the still unwrapped pile of toys.

"In that case, first we shall attend to this," Carlos flashed one of his shining grins as he began to encase a 'Skiing Barbie' in a sheaf of colourful paper. "And then we shall attend to that."

"And here I was worried I wouldn't get anything special for Christmas."

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**TWO BLOCKS AWAY**

Angie was already asleep by the time Chris arrived. Removing his uniform, he slipped into the bed beside her. The bulge in her stomach had grown while he was away. The baby would be coming in less than two weeks. Almost immediately, he felt guilty. He wouldn't be there to see his son being born. Would he always be one of those fathers? So devoted to serving his country that he forgot to serve his family?

He felt Angela's hands grip his then press them against her stomach. Glancing into her merry brown eyes, he could see them glisten slightly.

"He always sleeps better when you're guarding him."

"I've got to cancel the mission," Shepard tried to get out of bed. "I can't just leave, not now."

"Shh, baby," Angie shook her head reproachfully. "What you're doing out there? Keeping that stuff out of our son's life? That's the best form of fathering you could ever do. You'll be back in a few months. And then you can hold him."

"What'll we call him?"

"Gerry, after your brother," she replied without hesitation.

"I love so much, sometimes it hurts," Chris admitted. Joy, hope, sadness, pain. All crammed together on this, the happiest night of the year. So much promise for the future. He had to stay alive down there. He had to come back for his son, for his wife.

"And don't ever forget that. Merry Christmas babe."

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**WEST VIRIGINIA FARMLAND**

"Grandma!" Robby sprang from the porch and ran to embrace Alice as she stepped out of the government car.

"What are you doing up so late?" Alice reproved the four year old as he looked down at the ground with some guilt.

"Me and Uncle Alex were just hoping to see Santa," he admitted. There was a grumble as Alex Bailey revealed himself. Alice and Tom's three children had been born across fourteen years of marriage. Alex had been the ring boy at Kylie's wedding, and almost like a big brother to his nephew.

"Didn't you know? Santa's fully qualified in stealth and reconnaissance," she swept her son and grandson up in a hug. "You'll never catch him just by manning an OP."

"But he's wearing red Mom!" Alex protested. Still young enough to believe in Santa, but old enough to be suspicious. "How could we miss him?"

"That's just a story he likes to spread around," Alice walked up the steps of the house. "He actually wears camouflage fatigues to stay hidden. Now, back to bed with you."

Twenty four year old Kylie and eighteen year old Jacinta were waiting in the kitchen with Tom. "Hey Mom," her eldest daughter pecked her on the cheek. "How was your 'business trip'?"

"Went well," Alice had given up trying to hide what she did from her daughters when they had called her 'office' at a Washington insurance agency and discovered that she didn't actually work for Goliath Insurance and Capital Investment. That and the assault rifle hidden in her closet had probably clued them in. "Did some very rigorous training for an upcoming company field trip."

"Oh?" Tom was pouring out a glass of red wine. "Did you talk business with the boys?"

"Yeah, we decided it's time to launch a hostile elimination of elements that might cause instability in the market," she slipped her jacket onto a hook. "Specifically in the pharmaceutical area."

"When?" Kylie enjoyed the double talk. As a sworn agent of the Secret Service, she and her mother sometimes engaged in playful 'turf wars' regarding her semi-employment with the CIA. Alice was proud of all her children, but Kylie was the shining star. Graduated Harvard college, age nineteen, with a major in criminology. She had gotten married, entered and graduated from the Secret Service academy, gotten pregnant and gave birth all within the one year.

Kylie now worked closely with the Treasury department, tracking down counterfeiters. She had even drawn her SIG P226 on a suspect who had resisted arrest. At the first sight of the weapon, the college student, more used to bouncing fake twenties off bar owners, than tall, angry women with handguns, had wet himself.

Jacinta had been accepted to enter the Naval Academy at Annapolis, starting in 2001. She intended to fly F-14 fighters with the US Navy after graduation. Tom, once a Marine, always a Marine, had almost had a heart attack when he found out his daughter wanted to be a 'squidhead'.

As for Alex? At only ten years old, he already proclaimed his intentions to become a 'Devil Dog', just like his father. The pleased smile that Tom had had plastered on his face never quite faded for several months.

"I leave tomorrow night," Alice answered Kylie's question. "Someone very high up wants this dealt with."

Kylie raised an eyebrow. At the level they were talking on, her mother could only mean the President. Well, she wouldn't shed any tears over druggies. "Take care of yourself Mom."

"I always do," the older woman reassured her. "Now, if someone wants to guard the bedroom door, we can get these presents sorted out."

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**SUMMER RAINBOW RETIREMENT COMMUNITY**

**NORTH CAROLINA**

**ROOM 021**

"Travis," Jenny Lowerson sat up in her bed as Ducky came in the door. "What are you doing wasting your Christmas Eve on an old woman like me?"

"Where else would I be?" Ducky leaned forward to embrace his mother. A lifetime of hardship and determination had caught up on his mother. At eighty years old, she was a shade of her former self. She had always been so strong, just like Dad. When cancer had claimed his life twenty years ago, she had begun to fade. It broke his heart to see her like this, reduced to sitting in bed, reading all day. "I'm sorry I've been gone for so long."

"Son, you come round every day, whether you're bone tired from endurance training, or covered in mud from swamp missions," Jenny laughed. "I think I can excuse you for being gone a few months. Besides, Daisy brought the kids over the other day. I'm not a forgotten soul."

"I've been thinking about retiring," Ducky sat on the edge of the bed. "I've put in twenty years Ma, I can retire on my pension and savings, get the farm back into shape and you can move back there."

"Absolutely not," her words carried the authority of a judge. "You're not a nurse Ducky. You're a soldier. And you could be a hell of a father too, if you stopped beating about the bush and asked that lovely Nurse Holloway out on a date."

"Ma!" Travis blushed. "I'm forty three Ma. Not exactly a teenager looking to score."

"She's thirty nine, she's attractive, she likes you!" Jenny spoke bluntly. "What's the problem?"

"Ma, don't get excited..."

"I'll get excited if I want to!" Jenny relaxed despite her words to the contrary. "Sonny, I'm not some tyrant that wants all her serfs close to her. I'm just a frail old woman, who is happy that she raised such a fine son, and wants to see him happy as well. It's time you started stepping out of your own shadow. You don't need to be my sole companion anymore. Daisy lives close enough now that she can bring the kids to visit every week. And Billy's new job brings him to Carolina twice a month, and he always stops in to see me. So tonight, don't sit here reading with me. Go take Miss Holloway for Christmas drinks as the NCO's club over at Bragg."

"But Ma..."

"Ma knows best," Jenny leaned back into her pillow. "Now get along with you Ducky."

"Okay Ma," Travis chuckled as he headed for the door. "Merry Christmas."

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**FAYETTEVILLE**

**NORTH CAROLINA**

**HIGH STREET**

"What am I doing here?" Bulldog muttered to himself as he walked down the snow covered road. It was after midnight, Christmas Day. Staff Sergeant Chester Clifton III had no family, no girlfriend, lived on base housing, ate at the base mess, drank at the NCO's club. His whole life revolved around being a Green Beret. He should be there right now, slamming down drinks with Sean, Mike and the Colombians. Not wandering through the streets of Fayetteville, wrapped in a black trenchcoat as snow began to fall.

He hadn't been troubled by self doubt for a while. Sure, he had joined up because he thought it'd impress his friends and the girls back home. Then he'd become a Green Beret because being a clerk was boring and the folks back home weren't all that impressed with a uniformed typist. But after going through the meat grinder of qualification course, then training...he had found his niche.

His parents were decent people. Hardworking landowners who ran a series of farms, both for their own use and for rent. They were easygoing, fair on the newcomers, friends with the old timers. But they had grown up in a time when the Army was not popular. The photos coming back from Vietnam had been less than flattering. Towards the end, the media had decided to 'withhold from view' all the images that depicted the courage and comradeship of the South Vietnamese soldiers and the American GIs. That same dislike had permeated into the adult lives of Chester Clifton II and Andrea Bond.

They had been sternly disapproving of Chester when he first signed on for the Army, but had understood the youthful need for rebellion. _"As long as it doesn't last," _his father had said.

But when their twenty one year old boy had come home from Fort Bragg, proudly dressed in his uniform, with a green beret perched atop his head, and a Special Forces dagger patch sewn onto his sleeve, they had lost it. Their only son? An agent of the covert forces of the government? One of the same meatheads that had caused so much destruction to the peaceful North Vietnamese people? The argument had escalated. Murderer, his father had called him. A traitor to his family.

Bulldog had endured his father's ranting, right up until the moment when Chester Clifton II snatched the green beret off his head, hurled it on the fireplace and sucker punched his son in the face. Bulldog had reacted instinctively, with the same precision that his instructors had taught him. Catching his father's next blow in a wrist lock, he had delivered an open palmed strike to the old man's chest, sending him crashing into a piano and breaking three of his ribs.

He had taken the bus back to Fort Bragg that same night.

A scream shook him out of his reverie. Looking up, he saw a figure dashing toward him. A high pitched voice across the road called out:

"That man took my bag!"

Instinctively, Bulldog stepped in front of him. "Drop it punk," he commanded, holding up his hand. The kid looked to be about seventeen. Probably grabbed the bag for a quick buck.

"Get lost," the boy snarled, a switchblade appearing in his hands. Bulldog was almost amused by the two centimetre knife. His own left hand disappeared into his coat pocket, and came out holding a USP .45. The kid's reaction was almost comical. "Hey man, what's with the piece?"

"Knife and the bag, on the ground now," Bulldog gave the barrel indicative wiggle.

"Okay man, just be cool," the kid threw away the blade, then put the bag on the pavement. The woman ran across the street, retrieved her property, gave Bulldog a grateful nod, then scuttled toward her parked car. Chester returned his sidearm to his pocket.

"What the hell are you doing snatching bags off women on Christmas?" he demanded. The youth looked ashamed instead of sullen.

"Don't have a choice, haven't eaten in two days," the boy mumbled. "I'm trying to get to New York."

"Why New York?"

"My brother lives there, he's a cop," he scuffed his worn shoes against the sidewalk. "Dad died a week ago, car accident. He was stone drunk. Bank took the house, I had nowhere to go."

"Does your brother know where you are?"

"Kinda. He sent me some money to get myself up to him. I bought a bus ticket, but I got off for a few minutes to stretch my legs...some guys roughed me up, took everything I had. Been walking ever since."

Bulldog was a cynicist. He was inclined to disbelieve everything, then apologise if he turned out to be wrong. But this kid wasn't lying. Alone, lost, out of his depth, and desperate. "Well sonny, I can tell you one thing for sure, you ain't gonna get ahead by sticking up ladies in the middle of the night. It's a sure way to wind up in jail though."

"I know," he was embarrassed. "I'm sorry. You gonna turn me in?"

"Nah," Bulldog indicated the boy to follow him. "There's a diner down the road and I'm hungry. We'll have something to eat, and then I'm putting you on the next bus to New York. This time, don't get yourself mugged."

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Midnight Mass had ended at the cathedral, the children filtered out, forming into a rough choir and singing out Christmas carols. It was here that 1st Sergeant Jack Andropov found his family. Lucy, Jack Jr, and Frank immediately broke from their ranks and charged toward him as soon as they caught sight of him among the crowd. The older children, Kate and Brian hung back, but their grins at seeing him were unconcealed.

And Helen, her embrace was the warmest. His wife whispered her own Christmas greeting into his ear. His family, his wonderful family. His rock to tie himself to, in the all the death and suffering of warfare.

"How long are you sticking around this time?" Brian's voice was emotional. All military kids lived in the knowledge that every day their parents spent away from home, was another that increased the chance of not coming home at all.

"Not for long," Pixie put a hand on his eldest son's shoulder. "Which is why we need to enjoy the time we've got now. Who wants to sing some carols, and then go get ice cream?"

"Jack," Helen was jokingly reproachful. "It's way past their bedtime."

"It's Christmas," Pixie lifted Lucy up onto his shoulders as the carol singers resumed their music. "As head of this family, I declare bedtime to be nonexistent tonight."

"_Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright."_

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**SAN DIEGO**

**CALIFORNIA**

Kerry Smith knew the familiar rumbling of the sports car as it pulled into the street. Bob Toland's 1986 Corvette was his pride and joy, and although it was an entirely impractical car, it made it easy to know when he was around. Taking care not to wake up her husband, she slipped on her dressing gown and slippers, then carefully made her way to the front door.

Bob was waiting on the front steps. "Hey Kerry."

"Well look what the cat dragged in?" she crossed her arms, her mood suddenly improving. "I knew you'd make it for Christmas. Come on in, I have the bed in the guest room made up, and you can surprise Beth in the morning when she's opening her presents..."

"Kerry," Bob gently interrupted her. "I'm not staying, I just stopped by to give you this."

In his hand was a thin envelope. "It's just in case I don't make it back. It has some things that need to be said..."

There was a resounding crack of skin against skin, and Bob raised his hands defensively, the side of his face on fire from his sister's slap. She glared at him. "Don't you dare do this again Bob. Don't you run off and leave your baby girl without a father."

"It won't be for long, three or four months at the most," Toland turned away.

"It'll always be three or four months, here and there," Kerry followed him. "Right up until the day they ship you home in a pine box!"

Toland swung around. "That will never happen!"

"You say that now but you don't know for sure! You keep rolling the dice, sooner or later, they're going to come up snake eyes!"

"Daddy?" a small voice from the top of the steps interrupted their argument. Beth Toland stood, rubbing sleep from her eyes and clutching at a well loved, well worn teddy bear. "Why are you yelling?"

"I'm not yelling sweetie," Toland mounted the steps again. "Auntie Kerry and I were just having a disagreement."

"Why are you leaving?" tears began to well in her blue eyes. "Don't you want to be here?"

"More than anything in the word Beth baby," Bob hesitated. "But Daddy has to go and do his job."

"You're always doing your job," Beth backed away. "Why can't you come home?"

"Because his home's wherever the battlefield is," Kerry's voice was ice cold. "Come on Beth, it's way past your bedtime. Bob, I think it's time for you to leave. Don't come back unless you plan on staying."

There was more Bob wanted to say, so much more. But right now, it couldn't be said. Simply nodding, he donned his beret and walked briskly down the steps, out the gate, and up the sidewalk, heading for where he had parked his Corvette.

Kerry began leading Beth back inside, but she broke away and chased after her father, bare feet slapping against concrete. Toland turned around at the noise, and as he turned she flung herself into his arms, sobbing helplessly.

"Daddy, please don't go," she cried into the shoulder of his uniform, her tears dripped onto his captain's bars. "I don't want you to leave. I don't want you to die. Promise you'll stay!"

Bob felt his own tears falling. "Shh, shh baby, don't cry," he stroked her hair. He had an idea. Reaching inside his collar, he pulled out his dog tags. "Do you know what these are?"

"They're supposed to identify you when you die," Beth stopped crying in surprise as he pressed the cold metal into her palm.

"That's right," he said encouragingly. "And if I don't have them on, that means I can't die, 'cos nobody would know who I was. And _that_ means that I'll have to come back to get them. Do you understand me Beth? I'll be back."

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"That honourless _bitch!_" Romus swore as the footage ended. That asari was playing for ratings now. What could be more poignant than showing men spending time with their families, a father bidding his daughter a tearful farewell, and then having a krogan kill them?

This could not stand. It would end at these 'humans', Romus was sure of it. Somebody had to stop it, good people had to take a stand. Somebody had to save the lives of Captain Toland and his men. And if nobody else would do it, then Romus was more than prepared to accept the challenge. The law was the law and duty was duty. He shared that trait with this 'Toland'.

"May the spirits watch over you Captain," he whispered. "May they light the path back to your family. And if the worst comes to past, may they accept you into their embrace."

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**A/N: Dammit, I made myself cry writing this chapter.**


	7. Welcome to the Jungle

Predators

Chapter Seven: Welcome to the Jungle

I don't own Bioware

"_Fighting soldiers from the sky._

_Brave men, who jump and die._

_Men who mean just what they say._

_Those brave men, of the Green Beret."_

_-Staff Sergeant Barry Sadler, The Ballad of the Green Beret._

**DECEMBER 26****TH****, 2000**

**FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA**

**BACHELOR NCO'S BARRACKS**

**0530 HOURS**

"Fucking Colombians," was Sergeant Mickey Byrne's first declaration of the day as he regained consciousness, the incessant beep coming from the table informed him that his clock just didn't care how late he had stayed out drinking. "Just couldn't fucking accept that they couldn't outdrink an Irishman could they?"

Sitting up, he winced as a spike of pain jarred through the centre of his brain. Pulling himself from the couch, he staggered toward the small kitchen, retrieved an ice pack, some aspirin, and then turned to the intercom.

=This is Byrne= he groaned, alerting the Mess Sergeant that somebody needed to recover. =Coffee, strong, black. Ham, three egg omelette, hash browns. I'll be down in fifteen minutes=

Walking to the bedroom door, he tapped politely several times. "Come on little brother. We've got a big day today. Grab breakfast, then we drive over to the airport for pre-mission brief and gear prep."

There was no answer. Mickey frowned and pounded on the door with a balled fist. "Sean, get up or I'll come in there and..."

The door opened quickly and Mickey was rendered speechless. Instead of his twin brother, a very buxome blonde with full lips, blue eyes and incredibly long legs, wearing nothing but a revealing set of white lace underwear. She smiled politely at the short haired trooper, then slipped past him. On her way to the door of Mickey's quarters, she retrieved a white blouse and skirt from the floor. The blouse had the insignia of a Navy Petty Officer Second Class.

Mickey slowly rotated his head back to the bedroom. Sean appeared, dressed in black boxers and an undershirt. He grinned cheerfully at his brother. "Sorry Mickey, was up all night."

While Mickey was only older by five minutes, he always assumed the 'big brother' role to Sean. That meant, when necessary, congratulating him on his exploits. In this case, those congratulations were well and truly earned.

"With a girl like that, I should hope so," he winked roguishly. "You'd be no brother of mine if..."

He trailed off as a second woman appeared in the doorway behind Sean. A dark skinned, dark eyed Latino with three stripes on her unbuttoned fatigue jacket. Giving Sean an affectionate kiss on the cheek, she also headed for the door, pausing for a few seconds to pull on her trousers. Mickey's eyes were so wide he was afraid they'd pop out of his head.

"That's not fair," were the only words he was capable of. "You drank twice as much as me, stayed at the bar twice as long drinking with the Colombians and you not only get laid, you pick up two girls? While drunk?"

"Well, you know what Dad used to say," Sean swaggered toward the bathroom. "Either you got it, or you ain't."

He whistled a tune as he shut the door and started up the shower. It was 'When Irish Eyes are Smiling'.

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**MARRIED PERSONNEL HOUSING AREA**

Carlos had resolved that he would slip out without waking his family. He'd never been good at saying 'goodbye'. He preferred to skip it whenever possible. Rising with the sun, 'Bandito' quickly showered, shaved and dressed in casual civilian clothing. He'd change into fatigues before the flight.

Maria and the children had slept through his morning activities. It had been a busy Christmas Day, filled with water fighters, lunch with Pixie and Shepard, settling down in the evening to watch some of the new movies on the VHS. Then after the kids were in bed...Carlos couldn't help but smile despite himself. He and Maria wanted about seven or eight kids. Both came from large families, it was a half Spanish, half Catholic instinct built into them. The desire to care for, and be surrounded by happy, laughing children.

Carlos had a gut feeling that Number 4 had come into existence during the night's activities.

Finishing his morning coffee, Carlos quickly washed the dishes, then picked up his carry bag and headed for the door. He was almost there when Maria stepped out of the bedroom, dashed across the hallway and grabbed him, clad only in a silk dressing gown.

"How many times have I told you not to sneak out of your own home like a thief?" she whispered in his ear.

"I don't like drawing attention to myself," he smiled back at her, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as his hands undid the front of her robe. "I prefer to infiltrate, say my hellos, say my goodbyes, and then disappear into the night."

"I don't think we've said 'goodbye' nearly enough times," Maria growled, tugging aggressively at his shirt, pulling him back toward the bedroom.

Carlos couldn't help a laugh. Well...the plane wasn't leaving till tonight. Today was just briefing and mission prep. He could afford to be late, he had time to...

"Daddy, Daddy!"

...aaaaaannnnnddd he didn't.

Two year old Rosa staggered out of the bedroom she shared with Little Maria. The youngest Estevez had shown a knack for escaping from every cot or play pen that she was contained in.

"Good morning Little Rose," Carlos swept her up in a bear hug, as Maria, cheeks still flushed, retied her dressing gown. "How are you this fine day?"

"Fwine," Rosa wrapped her arms around his neck. "Do you have to go 'way Daddy?"

"Just for a little while," Carlos reassured her. "Can you be a big girl for Mama?"

"Sure," Rosa suddenly turned shy, reaching for Maria, who accepted her into her own arms. Elizabeth and Little Maria came out of their rooms, rubbing sleep from their eyes. They wanted their own goodbyes as well.

_Ahh, to hell with it,_ Carlos decided. "Come on everyone. Into the kitchen, I'm making pancakes for breakfast."

He had time.

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Brian handed Pixie his jacket. The teenager seemed withdrawn this morning, he didn't meet his father's eyes as he handed him his travel bag. "Mom packed you some cold turkey sandwiches, enough for Chris and Sean and the guys. There's some chocolate as well. You know, for when you need something sweet."

"Your mother's an angel," Jack laughed. "It's a long flight to where we're heading."

"Where are you heading Dad?"

"Can't say. Classified." Pixie could tell what was coming next. "Brian, while I'm gone, you're the man of the house. So if you've got something you want to say, you just come right out and say it."

"You said you were gonna take that instructor's position over at Fort Benning," Brian burst out. "Dad, you're closer to fifty than forty. The whole damn base is filled with Green Berets, why'd you have to take this one?"

"Damn, this is deep thinking from a kid," Pixie mused. "Maybe if..."

"Dad, I'm not a kid anymore," his son insisted. "You're the one that always says I have to be the man of the house. Well that's not fair. You've had your glory days, you've put in your time for America Dad, you should be thinking about your family now."

Reluctantly, Jack looked his son in the eye. "You're right. It's not fair. I'll call in a favour with the Colonel. He'll get another medic sent out to the AO. I'll be back in a few weeks, instead of a few months. Then we'll take that transfer to Benning, and you and I can go camping."

"Thanks Dad," Brian paused again. "There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. You're not going to like it."

"You've spoken your mind so far," Pixie rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "Go ahead."

He did and he was right. Pixie did not like what he had to say.

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**BASE CHAPEL**

Lieutenant Hector Lancero knelt in the pew, staring up at the altar. Since the night before, he had felt a curious build up of sensations in his stomach. They made him nervous, uneasy. As much as he hated to admit it, he was afraid. Afraid of dying, afraid of what the cartels would do to him if they caught him, but most of all afraid of failing. Of letting down his men in the heat of battle, allowing them to be slaughtered. He had not been tested in the crucible of war, he had no idea of how he would react under fire.

There was movement beside him, and another man knelt in the pew. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all Captain," Hector looked at Toland. "You are a Catholic as well?"

"Not the strictest sense of the word," Toland shook his head. "I believe in God though. Heaven, Hell, all that stuff. Didn't used to, but once I got shot at enough times, I figured there had to be somebody watching over me."

"He protects those who fight in his name," Hector agreed. For a while, they sat in silence. Finally Hector's curiosity got the better of him. "If you don't mind me asking sir, what did you do the first time you got shot at?"

"As soon as the first bullet went past my head, I wet myself," Toland replied frankly. "But my training kicked in, I got my rifle up and started shooting back, went into automated mode. Won myself a nice little ribbon for that particular war. The next time was when my chalk skirmished with the Republican Guards back in '91. I stayed in control that time, I was responsible for my squad, had to stay level headed, keep them alive. You worried?"

"Scared shitless."

"Don't be," Toland advised. "No one's judging you out there. I don't mind if the first thing you do once the druggies start shooting is to throw yourself on the ground and start praying, just as long as you're not there for longer than ten seconds."

"I'll remember that," Lancero stared back at the altar. "You know, back home, the land holds such promise. You plant something, it will grow. We make the finest coffee in the world, and with a little development, we could expand our economy into something truly stable and reliable. Instead, the word 'Colombia' is almost synonymous with 'cocaine'."

"Not for much longer, if we do our jobs right," Bob stood from the row. "This is just the start Lieutenant. It's a brave new millennium we're facing. Thirty years ago we put a man on the moon, in another thirty we might have colony there. It all depends on what we do right now, to advance our species."

"You are eloquent when the mood strikes you sir," Lancero followed him out of the chapel.

"You should hear Chris when he gets going. I think giving speeches must be a trait of the Shepard family" Toland laughed as he opened the door on his Corvette. "Well Lieutenant, shall we?"

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Shepard had his head propped up on a pillow, staring into his wife's eyes. Both his and her hands were placed on her swelled stomach, feeling the movement of their son within her.

"He's coming soon," Angela smiled. "Just like a Shepard, itching for action."

Chris grinned. "And just like a Shepard, he's gonna learn that sometimes it's better to stay put."

The sound of the rest of the base waking up drifted through the window. A car door slammed, a child laughed, in the distance a helicopter lifted off. Reluctantly sitting upright, Chris began pulling on his boots.

"Here," Angela removed a small silver crucifix and a delicate chain from around her neck. "I want you to take this."

"Honey, you know I don't believe in that stuff," Chris finished doing up his laces. "If I'm coming home, it'll be because I'm faster on the draw than the guys we're going up against."

"Maybe it's not a case of you believing in him, but if he believes in you," looping the chain around his neck, she secured the clasp. "It can't hurt."

"I guess you're right," he leaned back over to kiss her again. "But I'll be back. For him, and for you. You can take that to the bank."

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**FAYETTEVILLE REGIONAL AIRPORT**

**NORTH CAROLINA**

**HANGAR SEVEN**

**1415 HOURS**

The hangar was large, no doubt about that. Cavernous in every aspect. However, the effect was somewhat reduced by the presence of a Boeing 747 painted in the colours of Pan-America Airways. Inside the cargo bay, a group of safety inspectors were checking the hatch, making sure that the crewmember inside would be able to safely open it for the egress of the strike team, and then close it again after they had jumped.

Underneath the wing of the jumbo, the team was assembled. Twelve men, one woman. If Toland had been superstitious, the thirteen man squad would have worried him. He wasn't, so it didn't.

"Local CIA assets have placed infrared beacons around our LZ here," Toland gestured to the map behind him. "This clearing is well off the beaten track. Cartels don't patrol all their territory, just the occupied parts. The risks of being spotted landing are low. Once we're assembled, we bury our chutes and hike to our Lay Up Point for the night and sleep during the morning. Come afternoon tomorrow, we go to work."

"What's our first target Cap?" Bulldog was the first to ask a question.

"We're going to head for this small bush airfield, designated Checkpoint VIPER," Bob answered. "When we get there, we'll conceal ourselves and wait for up to twelve hours for any targets of opportunity that may appear. Word of advice, stack up on C4, we'll be using a lot of it."

Carlos' face immediately split into a huge grin. Explosives. He loved them almost as much as his family. He couldn't help it. Such beautiful destruction, and he got _paid_ to do it.

"General Waters?" Toland nodded toward the Marine. He had taken a liking to the man. Waters had been there, done it all and got the t-shirt to prove it. Hardcore...for a leatherneck. The general stepped forward.

"You men have been handpicked for this task," his steely eyes swept the seated fighters. "For too long, these bastards have pumped our society full of their poison. No longer. You will beard the lion in his den. You are going to show them the consequences of fucking with the United States of America. They've enjoyed years of profiting from misery. Well, we're Old Scrooge himself, come to collect the debt they owe. They consider themselves royalty, ruling over the peons that they force into service. Those days are drawing to an end."

The Green Berets began nodding in acknowledgment. Waters continued his speech. "This isn't some humanitarian peacekeeping mission. We are going down there to kill these bastards in their sleep. We're going to pay them back, blood for blood, life for life. For every poor dumb teenager that OD'd on that shit. For every piece of sorrow and misery, broken families and drug money killings. This is a reckoning."

"Hell yeah sir!" Shepard called from the back. "Let's hit them where they live."

Waters lifted his hand up in a rigid salute. "Godspeed, and good luck to you all."

"Atten-hut!" Toland snarled. The entire team snapped to attention as Toland returned the salute. The general beckoned him to follow as he walked toward his staff car. Colonel Lenau stayed a few paces back.

"Lenau and myself will be flying to the Pentagon this afternoon," Waters revealed. "We'll be running this thing from the main operations centre. Your satellite encryption gear has been sorted out. You'll have twenty four hour access to our COMSAT array."

"If things get messy, can we count on air support?"

Waters nodded. "Limited, but still available. The _Enterprise_ and the _John F. Kennedy _will be engaging in fleet exercises over the next few weeks. Their F-18's can give you some air cover, but they'll be restricted to light ordinance. I'm not authorising a napalm strike on Colombian territory."

"I'll make it a point to avoid those situations sir," Toland shook the general's hand. Waters stepped into his car. Leaning out, he smiled at the captain.

"I'll see you in four months. Go get 'em."

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"What now?" Sean looked around at his team mates.

"Still got hours till mission time," Alice moved toward the bed rolls. "I'm going to grab some sleep while I still can."

Chris began to field strip his M-16. "I'll sleep when I know everything's going to go fine. Otherwise, I'll be sleeping when I'm dead."

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**TRIUNE ENTERPRISES VESSEL**

**MSV **_**CRAFTY TRADER**_

**JUST ENTERING THE SOL SYSTEM**

"We will infiltrate in the early hours of the morning," Wrex instructed the hunters. "During a gap in their primitive radar system. We will use a small shuttle for the drop off. The quarian will co-ordinate all our technology. I plan to engage these 'Green Berets' in battle tomorrow morning, when they are tired. A small attack to start with, just to get the hunt flowing. They will run, we will chase, they will die."

"Nice and simple," T'Livia ran a finger along the edge of her sword. "Almost doesn't seem fair. Those primitive weapons of theirs will be nearly useless. The projectiles don't travel at a tenth of the velocity necessary to penetrate a barrier."

"We are menat to kill them, not the other way around," Xidam grunted. "Uncle, might I claim the honour of first kill? I fell ready for it."

"Time alone will tell if you are ready," Wrex reproved him. "But you may engage them first if that is your wish."

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**PAN AMERICA FLIGHT 314**

**SOMEWHERE OVER MEXICO**

"Reminds me of the one oh one," Mickey called to Sean as they lay curled up on the floor of the luggage bay. "Those were fun times."

"Yeah, up in the morning, out of the rack and into the C-130 to jump into the unknown. Really fun," Sean replied sarcastically. Alice sat up from her space.

"You boys were Airborne?"

"Sure thing," Mickey was still cheerful. "Screaming Eagles, I did thirty seven jumps. Sean pulled off forty. How 'bout you?"

"One hundred and eighty nine," Alice leaned back with a satisfied smile. "All of them into combat zones."

Nearer to the door, Toland felt a sense of satisfaction spread through him. He had just the right amount of bullshit, testosterone, oestrogen and unadulterated lethality on this team to take on the whole fucking universe.

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"Credit for your thoughts?" T'Livia questioned Wrex as the ship zoomed past a massive red planet.

"This human leader, 'Captain Toland'," Wrex tapped the dossier in front of him. "Not for centuries have I met a Battlemaster equal to myself. Someone intelligent enough to negotiate traps and prepare ambushes. Strong enough to defeat any opponent. And charismatic enough to assemble an unstoppable team."

"Arrogance Wrex?" She was more amused than anything else.

"My grandfather said that it is not arrogance if it is true," Wrex growled. "But this Toland? He leads with the authority of experience. If he were krogan, he would be a chieftain."

"Experience and leadership cannot win out against superior firepower," T'Livia twirled one of her blades. "I can personally guarantee you that neither Captain Toland or his team will live out the week."

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Toland stood at the exit to the cargo bay. Now was his final call. If he made the decision to abort the mission, then that would be the end of it. His word was final. The hatch would be sealed again, they would fly back on the return trip to America, the teams would go back to their homes. It would probably spell the end of Toland's career, but he, and all his team, would still be alive.

Toland never backed down. From anything.

Stepping out into the night sky, he plummeted toward the surface, gravity playing it's undefeatable game.

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**TRIUNE TOWER**

**ILIUM, NOS ASTRA**

**PENTHOUSE SUITE**

"Oh goody," Keira rubbed her hands together as she stared at the screen. "This is going to be such _**fun**_!"

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Alice hit the ground with as much grace as she could muster. No sooner had her legs made impact with the forest floor, then she dived into a roll to break her fall. Hands planted apart, drop onto the right shoulder and roll to the opposite hip. Fall broken.

Staggering slightly, Alice found herself staring up at the sky. Her sub-conscious kicked in, running through a mental checklist Bones? All together. Blood? Still inside her body. Brain? Slightly scrambled but nothing new. Weapons? Still strabbed to her body.

Alice was ready to rock.

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It took ten minutes to assemble the team and bury the chutes. When it was done, Toland gave a questioning look to Ducky. The scout didn't even need a compass, just glided into the scrub, leading the fire team toward the LUP.

It was here that Alice noticed something about the team. Back in her time fighting through the jungles of Vietnam, there had been two kinds of people. Those like her and Tom, who jumped right off the chopper and into the scrub, and the other kind. The other kind would look back at the chopper until it had vanished over the horizon. Not Alice, she knew where the job was, and it wasn't back on the UH-1.

None of the strike team even bothered to look at the fading shape of the 747. They too, knew where the job was, and where the fight was to be found.

The Green Berets had arrived.

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**A/N: Apologies for the long wait. I had a theology essay due in that was absolutely kicking my arse. Then I had to help the guys at Uni set up some stuff for the shed that we're building for the new Student Common Room. If any asshole ever tells me that spreading gravel is easy, I'm going to kick his arse six ways till Saturday.**

**BTW! Ashley and Kaidan have been confirmed as squad mates for ME3, and I practically went through the roof with my FIST PUMP OF AWESOME! Then I saw the picture of Ashley with her hair down, also official artwork from the game, and I fangasmed. Even the Talimancers on Bioware Social Network are interested in Ashley's new look.**

**Now if you will excuse me, I'm going ice skating.**


	8. Sucker Punch

Predators

Chapter Eight: Sucker Punch

I don't own Bioware

_One Green Beret says to the other, "Hey, why do you like blowing up stuff so much?"_

_His friend replies, "My dad bought me a chemistry set. It got bigger than both of us."_

**CENTRAL HIGHLANDS**

**COLOMBIA**

**UNIDENTIFIED AIRFIELD**

**1745 HOURS, DECEMBER 27****TH****, 2000**

Hernando grunted as he loaded the final box into the two engine Cessna. The work he was asked to perform as part of his employment as a Cartel footsoldier was better suited to one of the peasants, but when you worked for the Cartel, you didn't object when a few shitty details came your way. Not when the money was this good.

The pilot was leaning against the truck that had brought in the boxes, neatly packed with plastic satchels of high quality cocaine. The few flying schools in the region ran a roaring trade with the cartels, training drug runners to fly their loads over the Gulf of Mexico and into the US. Once they landed, the boxes would be shipped through their network, to be issued out to the suppliers.

The suppliers in turn would either sell their produce to freelance dealers, or pass it down to their own pushers. The pushers would cut the cocaine with other substances. For the vanilla businessmen or college kids looking for a high, it would be something harmless, like flour or sugar. For the hardcore junkies with expensive tastes, they might add in something a little more potent, like ketamine or prescription meds.

Once the users payed their cash, the dealers took their small cut and passed the rest of the cash up to the suppliers. The suppliers took their own pay out and transferred the rest to the money launderers. The crooked bookkeepers would run the money through offshore investments and several Swiss and German bank accounts, finally depositing it back in the lap of the Cartels.

Easy money.

"Hey, anybody got some cigarettes? I'm all out," he asked the pilot, the driver and the other guard assigned to the airfield.

"Go buy your own, this is my last pack," the pilot snarled back. "Fucking lazy _puta_, didn't think to bring some for yourself?"

"I doubt you'd be able to smoke his anyway," the driver leaned forward conspiratorially. "They're lodged too deep up his ass."

There was a roar of laughter from everyone except the pilot, who flicked out his own smoke and stalked toward his plane. "I'm gonna take a piss before I leave."

"Don't get any on your nice shiny shoes," Hernando shouted at the retreating figure. "It must be hard when it's so small."

The pilot walked behind the plane and over to the bushes at the edge of the airfield. Unzipping his fly, he gave a sigh as he relieved himself. Shutting his eyes, he allowed himself to think for a moment about the money he was getting for this trip. He'd go see that woman in San Francisco again, the high class one. She seemed to enjoy his visits, and he had no problem pretending that it had nothing to do with the two thousand dollars he paid her for an hour of pleasure.

Mmmmmm, he could imagine her right now, entering the hotel room, always wearing such conservative clothing, and then slipping it off to reveal the whorish undergarments underneath...

There was a groan of disgust from about three feet in front of him. Opening his eyes in shock, the pilot was treated to the sight of a bush with arms and legs pointing a black stick at him.

There was a soft *_pfft_* and a hole appeared right where the pilot's right eye used to be. His motor-cortex disintegrated, his legs collapsed and he toppled forward into the scrub, his patent leather shoes protruding from the bushes. Slowly, he was dragged further into the jungle.

Hernando looked toward the plane, trying to spot the pilot. "Hey _mano_? You alright over there?"

A strangled voice replied to him. "Would you let a man shit in peace _pendejo_?"

Hernando snorted. Asshole sounded constipated. Served him right.

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"Why did you have to go groaning?" Carlos hissed at Bulldog in annoyance. "He was right there!"

"Not my fault, the bastard pissed on me," Bulldog finished dragging the body of the man he had killed behind a tree. Checking his MP5-SD3, the scout nodded with satisfaction. The silenced gunshot hadn't drawn any attention whatsoever. "Besides, it worked didn't it?"

"Barely, I can't believe they didn't notice my accent." Handing his M-16 to Bulldog, Carlos drew his Beretta and began screwing on the bulky silencer. "You better keep me covered out there, I couldn't hit a whale at ten feet with this thing."

"Since when is that different from normal?" Bulldog patted him on the back. "And why would your accent matter? It's all Spanish."

"I speak Mexican Spanish, not Colombian Spanish you racist asshole," Carlos snarled at Bulldog as he scuttled out of the bushes and toward his target. He made sure to keep the plane between him and the line of sight of the other three men by the truck. Sliding to a halt next to it, Carlos removed a block of C4 from his webbing and positioned it inside the wheel well of the aircraft's undercarriage.

Satisfied that they hadn't seen him, the explosives expert moved quickly back to the scrub.

=Rook, this is Bulldog= the scout radioed Captain Toland. =Charge is in place. Shall we blast and leave?=

=Negative, there's a truck coming= On the hill overlooking the airfield, Toland had set up an observation post with Alice and Lancero. Alice had her M40 out and was zeroed in on the men standing on the runway. Lancero had also selected a target with Toland's M21 and was ready to fire. The rest of the team was scattered around the airfield, their weapons cocked and locked. =Rogue, do you have eyes on that truck?=

=Copy that Rook= Shepard's eyes followed the vehicle coming in off the jungle road. =Looks like a single lorry, one driver, four guys toting AK's on the back. Recommend we go with Bulldog on this one, don't want to draw too much attention to ourselves this early=

=I think we're more than capable of taking down seven men= Alice spoke over the comms net, her sights still locked on her target. =We can hit them all in the first volley=

=Agreed= Toland issued his orders. =Alice, Bulldog, Pixie, Diaz brothers, Bandito, Lancero and myself will fire first. Go for oneshots, do this quick=

A chorus of acknowledgements came back to his headset. The chosen shooters levelled their weapons into position. Alice, Bulldog and Lancero were using telescopic sights for their sniper rifles, Pixie, the Diaz brothers, Carlos and Toland had equipped Aimpoint red dot sights for their assault rifles. All shooters were within two hundred yards of their targets.

As the truck pulled to a stop, a chorus of snaps, barks and roars echoed across the airfield. The driver, just opening the door, fell out of the cab and onto the dirt, his blood leaking into the soil. The men in the back had not even stood up, they died where they sat. Two of the three by the first truck were down, one of them missing his head courtesy of Bulldog's .50 Barrett. Only one was left alive, screaming with pain from his wound.

"Sorry Captain," Alice clinically worked the action on her rifle, ejecting her spent shell and reinserting a fresh bullet. "My zero must have been off. Went through his stomach instead."

"Yeah, no problem," Toland wasn't fooled. She wanted to make a druggie suffer. "Make sure you re-zero it tonight."

"Copy," picking up the used shell, she tucked it into a chest pouch. "Make sure everyone collects their shots. It wouldn't do to leave a lot of 5.56 NATO rounds lying about, would it?"

"Roger that," Toland activated his radio. =Police your brass and make your way to the next checkpoint. Bandito? Blow it=

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Hernando found himself lying on the ground, bleeding from his gut. "_Madre de Dios!_" he lifted his hands away from the gunshot wound. They were covered in his blood. He had to get help, there was a cell phone in the plane. He could call the barracks, get them to come out and get him to a hospital.

Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself toward the Cessna. Who could have done this? FARC? A rival cartel? No, it did not follow. There was peace amongst the cartels now. They had put aside their rivalry to seek mutual profit. Who had attacked him?

He did not have enough time to reach a conclusion before his world was engulfed in flame, and then ceased to exist.

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**PENTAGON**

**MAIN OPERATIONS CENTRE**

**SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND**

"That looks beautiful," General Waters smiled as the satellite imagery showed the flames on the surface. "We just cost the cartels a few million dollars."

"And that's just the start," Lenau promised. "Within a week, Toland will have the place looking like the surface of the moon. Cartels are gonna burn."

"What about political repercussions?" Admiral Vance spoke up. "We could get in serious shit from the Senate if they find out about this."

"We just need to invoke the classified operations clause of our charter," Waters replied smugly. "Keep the politicians out of our business, keep the press from finding out what we're doing."

"Remember the good old days?" Lenau poured himself a cup of coffee. "Where we could take out death squads in Sierra Leone without having to worry about some snooty reporter crying about ethics?"

"Harder to stay honest in those days," Waters reminded him. "But it's nice to be able to accomplish something without seeing it ripped to shreds on 'Good Morning America'."

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**WHITE HOUSE**

**OVAL OFFICE**

**WASHINGONT DC**

The National Security Advisor, Condoleezza Rice, was giving a briefing to the President of the United States. The world was in pretty god shape at the moment, certainly now" here near as bad as the Cold War. But the NSA was paid to be paranoid every minute of every day.

That was why she was advising POTUS to pay close attention to a series of naval exercises the Chinese were conducting out near Taiwan. In the middle of her briefing, a Secret Service agent entered and passed the President a note.

"Really," the President looked up at the agent, who nodded her assent. When the President turned back to the NSA, he had a pleased grin on his face. "Sorry about that Cordie, just got some very good news.

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The remains of the aircraft were still burning, along with the corpses of the cartel soldiers. Pablo Melendez walked around the wreckage, looking for any details that might clue him in. His men were using fire extinguishers to cool down the bodies, enough to get them loaded into canvas bags and taken away for proper burial.

There wasn't much to work with. The only thing found in the surrounding jungle was the body of the pilot with a hole in his head. No shell casings, no tracks to follow. If these were mercenaries, they were well trained and skilled in field craft.

Stretching his legs, Pablo strolled to the far side of the airfield, gazing into the jungle. "Who are you?" he muttered as he scanned the bushes. About to turn around, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that caught his attention. One of the trees had been sawn neatly in half. The explosions hadn't reached this far out. Investigating further, he found a small hole in the more solid trunk of a heavy pine tree behind it.

Taking his knife, Pablo dug into the trunk. "What have we here?" he muttered as a lump of metal fell into his hand.

It was larger, more solid than the shots fired by the mercenary's AK-47's. Pablo had seen it demonstrated by a NATO unit in France. Something like this could only have been fired by a large calibre rifle, beyond anything FARC or the rival cartels would have at their disposal.

In that moment, everything clicked into place. A professionally staged ambush, no tracks to follow, no shell casings to reveal the type of weapons being used. _Yanquis._ Or at the very least, mercenaries trained and equipped by the _norteamericanos_.

"So you make war on us?" he spoke to himself. "Heavy risk, but the prize would be great for your President if you could bring us down."

Taking a satellite phone from his pocket, Pablo dialled in his brother's number. =Enrique, organise a meeting of the council. We have much to discuss=

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**CHECKPOINT RONDO**

"Beautiful ambush today," Alice dipped a plastic spoon into the MRE and chewed on the tasteless slop. "What's our next target?"

"Mobile drug mixing site," Toland indicated his map. "Hit them with the snipers, then move in quickly at close range and finish them off. Give Carlos a chance to do some work with his Remington."

"Fine by me," Shepard took a swig of his water. "When's our first resupply?"

"Strikeout will come in on New Years with our ammo, food and water," Toland reached for his satellite link. "I'll get in touch with the General, he probably knows about our little adventure today. I wonder if he'll be pleased?"

"Absolutely delighted," Pixie finished cleaning his M-16. "We killed a bunch of dumb grunts and blew up some coke that they'll replace in a few days."

"You always a pessimist?" Lancero enquired. "We scored a great victory."

"One that doesn't mean squat if we keep going after the pocket change," the medic racked the bolt on his rifle back, then slapped it forward again. "I say we go after the big bosses themselves. Hit them right in their mansions."

"Stupid to go for them straight away," Ducky shook his head. "We'd need mortars, helicopters, and a full company of troopers to take out those things."

"I don't want to kill the foot soldiers," Pixie stated. "For all I know, they're guys just like me. Guys with families, just trying to make a buck. Take out the head and the snake will die."

"Not when the snake can produce another head almost immediately!" Vega, the senior Colombian sergeant challenged the medic. "Once we've cut bloody holes in the body, then we go for the leaders. To do so immediately is suicide."

Pixie stood up and faced off with Vega, the Russian-American towering over the shorter Colombian. The two were inches away from exchanging punches.

"Break it up," Toland snapped. "Pixie, take a walk. You've got first guard duty."

"Yes sir!" the medic retrieved his rifle and went to relieve Sean on the perimeter.

"He gonna be a problem?" Alice nodded after the 1st Sergeant.

"Just give him some time to cool off," Toland settled into his foxhole. "He'll come around."

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=Honest Abe, this is Rook= the communications satellite picked up the incoming signal and relayed it almost instantaneously through the network, bouncing it around the channels until it wound up coming through the headset of a senior comms tech at the Pentagon.

=Rook, this is Honest Abe= the tech beckoned to Colonel Lenau. =Passing you on to Mother=

=Rook this is Mother= Lenau spoke into the microphone. =We saw the job you did. Nice work, very fast=

=Thanks Mother= Toland stared up at the night sky. =Everything went better than expected=

=You settling in for the night?=

=Roger that, we'll start moving before dawn, lay up at our target until tomorrow afternoon, then strike when it gets dark= Toland hesitated. =I want you to get Benny down to Panama. Send him out on the resupply bird. He'll replace Pixie=

There was a pause on Lenau's end. =Lima Charlie Rook. Won't be able to get him to you before seventh of January=

=That'll be plenty soon enough Mother= Toland drew his Colt .45 and held it down at his side. =Rook signing off. Call you tomorrow morning=

=Copy Rook, sleep tight. Mother out= Lenau closed down the link.

Making sure that his pistol was ready to shoot, with only the safety catch standing between it and a discharge, Bob settled in to sleep.

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"Sounds confident," General Waters lit up a cigarette. "It's going to be an interesting few weeks."

"Agreed," Lenau sipped at his coffee. "Thank goodness for the jungle. It'd take an army to find Toland's team in there. The cartels have enough retainers to form a small one, but if they started doing that, we'd be able to warn Toland and helo him out of there."

"Thank goodness for human invention," Waters took a deep drag of his cigarette and coughed.

"Those things will kill you one day," Admiral Vance laughed as Waters cough became a hack. It was only when he began wheezing and beating at his chest that Lenau realised something was wrong.

"Pills, top drawer," Waters collapsed to his knees, clutching at his heart.

Leaping over to his friend, Lenau eased him onto his back. "Get the medics in here, let the hospital know we have a man in his early fifties suffering from a heart attack!" he snarled at Vance. "Do it now!"

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Pixie rested the barrel of his rifle on the edge of the foxhole. From here, he had a clear field of fire all around the entrance to the small clearing that the strike team was resting in. His eyes scanned from left to right, searching for any possible threat.

He regretted his outburst. It hadn't been professional. He was a Green Beret dammit, not some sorry ass ROTC. Objectivity, practicality and feasibility were the words he lived by. The lives of his fellow operators relied on him keeping his shit squared away. He'd apologise to Vega and the Captain in the morning.

The sound of a twig snapping brought his rifle up in a flash. Nothing there. But he had heard something, that was for sure. Easing himself over the edge of the foxhole, Pixie crawled into the jungle. Right over there, he could hear gentle breathing. Perfect, some dumbass cartel soldier out looking for them. Pixie's rifle was hot, cocked and locked.

Another rustle coming from a thicket of vines. Planting the stock of his rifle firmly in his shoulder, Pixie squeezed the trigger.

*_click*_

Fuck.

Yanking his M-16 down across his body, Pixie whipped out his knife and hurled it at the vines. He had no clue how his rifle had jammed just after he had cleaned it, but anyone would have heard the click of the misfire. The knife would have to work instead. He pulled out his .357 Desert Eagle and jumped through the vines, expecting to find a wounded man on the other side.

...

Nothing. Just his knife sticking out a tree trunk.

"Motherfucking creepie crawlies," Pixie retrieved his knife and tucked it back into its sheath. "Jumping at shadows now? Man, I'm too old for this shit."

Lucky his rifle had jammed after all, if he had fired now, he might have given their position away to the cartels.

He didn't notice the shimmer of moonlight off a cloaked figure crouching in the shadows. T'Livia had dodged the throwing knife by millimetres. Only the click of Pixie's rifle had alerted her in time. Breathing a sigh of relief she began to crawl back toward her own base camp, where Wrex and the rest of the hunters were waiting for the dawn.

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**TRIUNE TOWER**

**ILIUM**

**MAIN STUDIO**

"Whoa, that was a close one," Keira shook her head at the camera. "Mr. Andropov has very good hearing to detect a hunter as stealthy as T'Livia. If his rifle hadn't failed him, he might have killed her. Still, that's how it goes, on Even Chance. I'll see you tomorrow, when our hunters take on the Green Berets for the first time."

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**CITADEL**

"I'm your host, Keira Triune, saying, good night galaxy!" she blew a kiss at the cameras.

Romus reached forward and flicked off the vidscreen. Well, that was it then. The humans would be ambushed and slaughtered. "Chali?"

"Yes dear?" his wife appeared in the doorway leading to the kitchen.

"I've been thinking," standing up, Romus approached her. "I've been working too hard lately. I'm getting burned out. I think the whole family could use a holiday."

Chali blinked in surprise. "A holiday?"

"Yeah," Romus put his arms round her waist. "Take the boys and go to somewhere nice. I hear Ilium has some great vacation spots, and you've always wanted to go there, soooooo..."

"Darling, I'd love to go," Chali seemed to accept his explanation. "How about next month? That'll give you enough time to arrange leave, and me some time to find a good hotel and some affordable transport..."

"Actually," Romus interrupted. "I've already taken care of that. We'll be staying in the Holtin Hotel in Nos Astra, with a full tourism package thrown in. We leave in two days."

"You old school romantic," she drew him in closer. "I didn't think you had it in you."

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**A/N: What will happen in the morning, when the two teams clash for the first time? Why is Romus going to Nos Astra? What does Waters' heart attack mean for the team? Find out next time on Predators.**


	9. Lambs to the Slaughter

Predators

Chapter Nine: Lambs to the Slaughter

I don't own Bioware

"_Some say that R&D is a waste of time. They claim that we don't need technological superiority over our opponents, that the skill and courage of soldiers will suffice. I'm sure the Aztecs felt the same way when they faced Cortez."_

_-Unnamed US Air Force general._

**MOSCOW, RUSSIA**

**1998**

**SPETZNATZ TRAINING FACILITY**

"_Hey darling," Bob held the phone to his ear. "How's work?"_

"_It's fine Bob," Helen Toland grinned as she heard her husband's voice. "How's Russia?"_

"_Cold, but the vodka's good," Bob chuckled. "Is Beth alright?"_

"_Yeah, Maria's babysitting her right now," standing up from her desk, Helen began packing up her files. "I'm going to make burgers tonight."_

"_Stop taunting me," Bob fiddled with his wedding ring. "You know we can't get any good food over here."_

"_Awww, poor baby," she laughed over the phone. "Look, I have to go now. Two weeks, then you're home, right?"_

"_Right," Bob confirmed. "I love you baby, stay safe."_

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**CENTRAL HIGHLANDS**

**COLOMBIA**

**DECEMBER 28****TH****, 2000**

**0420 HOURS**

Toland awoke with a start. Glancing around, he saw Alice running a cleaning rag along the side of her long rifle.

"Bad dream?"

"Nightmare," rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Toland sat up in the foxhole. "I get them occasionally."

"You stop getting them in your early forties," she informed him as she passed him a tin cup. "Just a matter of practice. Coffee?"

"Thanks," Toland gulped down the liquid. While freezing cold, it was still rejuvenating. "You married Alice? Got kids?"

She stiffened suddenly. "Yeah," was her guarded reply.

"You love them?"

"Yeah."

"Not much of a conversationalist?"

"If I want to get back to my family, I have to be a hundred and ten percent on top of my game out here," Alice stood up. "I suggest we wake up the men and get a move on. Dawn is in two hours."

"Agreed," Toland clipped on his webbing and returned his pistol to its holster. "Big day ahead of us."

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T'Livia sat on the hillside, her arms bare as she finished her morning prayers.

"Goddess, for the courage of those who die today, I give thanks," she intoned. "Take them into your care, let them dwell in fields of blue grass, until the day when you bring all together, and give the dead up out of your care."

Xidam snorted in derision. "You pray for your foes?"

"All are equal in the sight of the Goddess," turning away from the Krogan, T'Livia began to check her personal weapons. "One day, I might find myself on the receiving end, and my own death shall be inevitable. Does it not benefit me to pray for mercy to others? So that mercy may be shown to me?"

"It would be smarter to not get killed," Sitris spoke from his perch in a tree. The salarian was perfectly at home in the damp jungle, his bright demeanour indicated that he had taken his morning hit of red sand. "Those stupid enough to die deserve what they get."

"Even the most cunning of warriors will face death eventually," T'Livia snapped. "You would be wise to remember that!"

"I would not mind if you faced death," he smirked. "Perhaps I could give comfort to your grieving daughters?"

T'Livia was on her feet, one of her swords in hand. "My daughters would not let you lay one filthy finger on them!"

"There are chemicals for dealing with that," Sitris' grin was almost maniacal. T'Livia took two steps forward. If she had reached Sitris, he would have died where he sat.

Wrex stepped in front of her. "Save your energy for the humans."

T'Livia glared at her friend. "I am going to kill him Wrex. Now, or when this is over. He dies."

"Agreed," Wrex said amicably. "I'll hold him down if you like. But not until this hunt is over."

T'Livia sheathed her sword with a huff of annoyance. "Fine!"

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**MSV CRAFTY TRADER**

**IN ORBIT OVER EARTH**

Kalya scanned through the frequencies till she found the one belonging to the Green Berets. A satellite uplink. Not bad encryption for such a primitive species. As a matter of fact, their level of tech was downright impressive. Give them a hundred years, and these humans would be going places.

But Kalya wasn't here as a spectator, she was here to make sure that the prey couldn't call for help, or tell anyone who it was that was hunting them. Which was why she hacked into the satellite, and quickly killed the transmitter.

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**PENTAGON**

**SOCOM OPERATIONS CENTRE**

**0530 HOURS**

"How's Waters?" Admiral Vance questioned Lenau as he exited the elevator.

"He was damn lucky to live the night," the Colonel shook his head. "This'll end his career. They found two ulcers in his stomach, highly contributory to his heart attack. He's been removed from active duty, pending either a full recovery or an honourable discharge."

"Damn," Solomon Vance turned back to the communications console. "Hell of a way for an old warrior to bow out."

"It can happen to the best of us," Lenau pointed out as he poured himself some coffee. "Does this change anything?"

"The President's ordered me to take command of the operation," Vance shrugged. "Shouldn't be too hard. I've done this kind of thing before and I have you to advise me."

"Yes, well, at least Waters will get a Presidential Commendation for spearheading this thing. He's had a damned good run and..."

"Sir," the tech sergeant spun his chair around. "I've lost the uplink."

"What do you mean?" Lenau wasn't worried. Satellite comms were usually reliable, but a bad storm or a solar flare could...

"I mean it's gone," the sergeant slammed his headset on the desk. "No bad weather, no solar activity. Zip, nada, absolutely nothing to interfere with a clean link."

"Reboot it," Vance ordered immediately.

"I tried that," standing up, the sergeant moved to another console. "It's just cut off. Fuck!"

"Somebody get me NASA," Vance snarled. "They better have a damn good explanation for this."

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=Honest Abe, this is Rook= Toland shook his head in confusion. "Not getting anything."

"Fucking techies," Carlos squatted on the ground, the unit was taking a break in their hike toward the next OP. "Bet they've gone and fucked around with the precious satellite."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Chris fiddled with the sights on his rifle. "What do we do without an uplink? Our radios are line of sight only."

"We keep going," Toland put down the headset. "Hit our targets tonight, then roll on over to the LZ. Strikeout comes in on New Years. He'll either have new gear for us, or orders to pull us out.

"What are our options if he doesn't come?" Lancero frowned.

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While the command team discussed their plans, Sergeant Juan Diaz was watching the jungle. The young soldier knew the value of perimeter security. If any dumb peasant came wandering along, Juan would send him on his way with a stream of abuse, making the peasant think that he had just stumbled across a group of cartel soldiers. And if a real cartel soldier came along, Juan was to blow him away with his M-16A2. It was a powerful rifle, as he had confirmed when he had taken his first life the day before.

The AK-47 wielding man had crumbled under his bullets, just like his father had when the anarchists came to his village and killed everyone loyal to the government. Juan saw this mission as a holy crusade, to send these drug profiteers to their well deserved fates. He and Ramon had signed on for the long haul, and he'd gladly lay down his life for his country. For his people.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. "Hey, Ramon? That you?"

Nothing.

"Ramon, stop fooling around man," Juan flipped the safety off on his rifle. "Come on bro."

Still nothing. Juan brought the rifle up to his shoulder and advanced to where he saw the movement.

"Identify!" Juan snapped, kicking at the shape. "Or I'll blow your brains out."

"Alright," a gravelly voice answered him. Juan felt a stream of warm liquid run down his leg as he saw the figure towering over him.

"Oh shit."

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"Juan?" Ramon followed his brother's tracks. "Juan, we're moving out. Where are you?"

"Over here," he heard a whisper. Ramon frowned, Juan was big on practical jokes.

"_Mano, _I'm in no mood for your bull..." Ramon tripped over something lying in front of him. Getting back to his feet with a muttered oath, Ramon looked at what he had fallen on. "What the fuck!"

His brother's body was lying on the jungle floor, minus its head. Ramon suddenly became supremely aware of his surroundings. He reached for his radio. "Captain, we have hostiles. I just found Juan's body. Captain?"

Only static answered him. Ramon scanned the jungle, looking for targets. "Come out and fight!" he called defiantly, trying to swallow the fear in his stomach. What could have butchered Juan like that.

"As you wish."

Whipping around, Ramon saw something straight out of a horror movie. Holding the severed head of his brother, a massive, hulking figure stood only fifteen feet away from him. The..._thing_ looked vaguely reptilian, towering above him, and holding a minigun by his side.

"Your brother died far too quickly," the thing growled as it walked forward. "I hope you are more challenging."

Training overrode terror. Lifting his M-16 to his shoulder, Ramon jammed his finger down the trigger.

"CONTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACT!"

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Hearing the cry, Pixie looked up from his own perimeter position. Instinctively, he sprinted toward the sound of the voice. Cartels had found them. He had predicted this. A nagging voice in his head informed him that he should have stayed at home.

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Four seconds later, Ramon's magazine was dry. To his horror, the creature had not even budged. He seemed more irritated by the bullets than anything else. Priming his grenade launcher, Ramon fired his 40mm round. The thing rocked back on its heels, then shook his head and pointed the mini-gun at him.

The barrel began to spin up, Ramon stared in shock, unable to move.

Pixie boosted himself off a fallen tree and crash tackled Ramon out of the way as the bullets began to fly through the air.

"STAY DOWN!" the medic swore as he heard the whiz of projectiles. Tree began to fall, severed by the constant stream of lethal metal.

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Xidam felt his heart soaring. THIS was battle. To kill a man with his bare hands, to be shot at without result, to see his foes cower beneath his onslaught.

=Nephew, curb your eagerness= Wrex's curt commands came over Xidam's earpiece. =Your heatsink will not endure forever. Allow it time to cool down=

"Yes Uncle," Xidam reluctantly ceased firing. He wanted the thrill of victory now, but he could be patient if his uncle wanted him to.

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"Alright, move now, I'll draw his fire," Pixie gave Ramon a shove, then stood up, flipped his M-16 into burst fire mode and advanced toward the thing holding the gun. Circling the target, Pixie put every one of his rounds right on the monster's head. Roaring with rage, the thing began firing at him again.

Pixie moved to the right, just outrunning the turning circle of the gunner. Exhausting a magazine, he slammed in a fresh one and continued firing. Releasing the barrel with his left hand, he fumbled on his webbing for a grenade.

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"What the hell's going on!" Toland and Alice met Ramon halfway. The Colombian was terrified out of his wits, he had lost his M-16 and he was blabbering.

"Monster, that way," squirming out of Toland's grip, he ran into the jungle.

"Sergeant," Vega roared. "Fuck, I'll go get him."

"Take Mickey, meet us at the fall back point," Toland yelled, running toward the sound of gunfire.

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Pixie ducked behind another log and crawled furiously. Coming to a brief halt, he ejected his fourth magazine and awkwardly inserted a fifth.

"PIXIE!" Toland came to a halt at the edge of the destruction, he saw the shape of the monster shooting at his men, brought up his carbine and began firing short bursts at the target.

"RUN FOR IT!" Pixie screamed as he popped up from cover, shooting wildly to attract attention. "I'LL DRAW IT OFF!"

"NEGATIVE, FLANK ROUND IT!" Toland was aware of Alice and Carlos coming to a halt beside him. The two began firing their own weapons, all of their shots producing no visible effect.

"NO TIME!" The medic bellowed. "REGROUP WITH THE TEAM, TAKE IT DOWN WITH THE HEAVY STUFF!"

"JACK! DON'T DO IT!"

Pixie ignored him. Walking up to the nightmarish figure, he fired the rest of his magazine into the beast's chest. Letting his rifle hang by its sling, Pixie drew his Desert Eagle. At point blank range, he shot seven rounds, all of them hitting. The creature just shook his head, and the flattened bullets slid off. Pixie dropped his pistol in disgust.

"Why won't you just die?"

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Xidam raised his foot and kicked the human in the chest. The man flew ten feet, slammed into a tree trunk with a sickening crack and flopped onto the ground.

"YOU FUCKER!" An enraged Carlos fired another 40mm around, this one exploding a foot away from the monster. Xidam felt a sliver of hot metal penetrate his armour and cause a small laceration along his side. Ignoring the microscopic moment of discomfort, the krogan began to fire back at the three humans.

"No use!" Toland fired off the last round in his clip. "Pull back! We can't do anymore here."

"Roger," Carlos shot another three rounds, then turned and sprinted back through the jungle. Alice and Toland waited four seconds, then followed him.

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Pixie knew his spine was snapped, along with most of his other critical bones. The pain was excruciating. He was pleased to find out that in his last seconds, he didn't wish he could have done it differently. First Sergeant Jack Andropov simply felt contentment with a life lived in full, and sorrow for that which he would not see.

If only he had more time.

Darkness closed in on him, he didn't fight it. There was no point. All he could do now was pray for his friends. And there, deep in the battlefield, Pixie met his final fate. Like a warrior. Like a Green Beret.

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"Damn you Ramon!" Vega chased after his squadmate. "Stop running. The fall back point is the other way!"

Ramon Diaz was scared out of his mind. "It's a devil Vega, we can't fight it. We can only run!"

He would have run all day, but for a figure that stepped out on the path in front of him.

"Greetings," Sitris grinned, then activated his incineration tech. Ramon screeched as the plasma jet engulfed him, but he was fortunate. The flames disintegrated him quickly.

"_Bastardo!_" Vega opened fire on the salarian, but the ex-STG operative was too fast, vanishing back into the trees as rapidly as he had exited them. Mickey came to a halt next to the Colombian.

"Where the fuck's Ramon!" The heavy gunner demanded, wheezing slightly. Running while carrying an M-60 wasn't a fun exercise.

"That's what's left of him," Vega nodded toward a pile of ashes. "Something burned him a life. Looked like a horned devil."

"That's crazy," Mickey began scanning the jungle. "Isn't it?"

=Rook to all callsigns= Toland's voice came over the radio. =We're compromised. I don't know what we're up against. I don't even know if they're human. One killed Juan and Pixie=

=We've lost Ramon= Mickey radioed back. =What the fuck now sir?=

=Everyone back to the fall back point. Where's Chris and Lancero?=

=We're up front= Shepard came in on the comms net. =Bob, what do you mean, 'not human'=

=Either that or it's some heavy blast gear and a very complicated Halloween mask= Toland replied. =Don't try and fight them, just pull out=

=Roger= Mickey turned back to Vega. "Alright, let's...shit."

Vega was staring curiously at the sword sticking out of his chest. "I would like to have seen my daughter grow up," he said wistfully, then collapsed. Behind him, a blue skinned woman withdrew the sword from his body.

"Sergeant Michael Byrne I presume?" she enquired politely.

With a roar of anger, Mickey whipped his M-60 up and held down the trigger. After firing for five seconds, he released it. Instead of a bloody mess, the woman with the strange head was smiling politely. All his bullets were suspended inside a blue field in front of her.

"Very good, very good, but entirely out of place," she took one step toward him.

Mickey had faced many foes in his life. From angry fathers to Chinese special forces, he had fought them all head on, no matter how tough or how numerous. For the first time in his life, he turned and ran, still firing his machine gun at the woman behind him.

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Sean ran through the trees toward the small knoll of high ground that they had established as their emergency position. He had heard only brief scatter of conversation through his headset, but he knew that the unit was split up, in heavy contact and in danger of being completely overrun.

He knew he had to get to the high ground, to provide cover fire for his squad mates. He didn't want anyone else to die today.

Pushing his way through another thicket, he ran right into Urdnot Wrex.

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Wrex was momentarily knocked off balance by the human cannonball. Shocked, he instinctively reached for his shotgun.

Sean knew he wouldn't get his heavy gun up in time. Drawing his Beretta, he fired into Wrex's fringe at a range of two centimetres.

With a growl, Wrex swept the human off his feet. The puny handgun disappeared as Sean rolled down a small slope into a gully. He sprinted along the creek bed at the bottom as soon as he got on his feet.

=Fall back point's compromised= he panted. =Where do we go?=

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**PENTAGON**

"Admiral!" Sam entered the operations centre. "I'm getting real time audio footage from one of my Colombian assets. He's intercepting some radio transcripts in his area. They belong to your unit."

"Patch them through," Vance stood up straighter. He had chain smoked his way through a dozen lectures from senior NASA officials about all the ways the uplink could have died or been killed. He was now the commander of this operation. If it went wrong...he'd be the one holding the bag.

=Fall back point's compromised. Where do go?=

=Can't go anywhere, we're surrounded= another man yelled.

=We're not surrounded= Alice's firm voice stayed unrattled. =Pull back along the valley. Keep up the covering fire and watch your backs=

=Mickey, Sean, I want you to find a choke point for your heavy weapons= Toland ordered. =We need to...=

"Transmissions have stopped sir," Sam shrugged apologetically. "It sounds like the cartels know we're there."

"If they do, we need to send in Strikeout with an evac chopper," Lenau declared.

"In broad daylight," Vance shook his head. "That's suicide. We need to re-evalutate the situation."

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**COLOMBIA**

"They're in the trees," Bulldog and Ducky were back to back. The scouts had abandoned their ghillie suits when the first shots were fired. While handy for sneaking around, the stealth suits were impractical for a pitched firefight.

"Bulldog, Lancero, you go now, Ducky and I will cover," Shepard ordered. The first scout and the Colombian lieutenant knew better than to object. Both of them took off down the goat track. Shepard and Ducky fired their weapons on full automatic into the trees, Shepard's M-16 sounding like a cannon compared to Ducky's silenced MP5.

"You go Chris, I'll be with you in a sec," Ducky pushed Shepard along the track, then whipped around as he heard the sound of a shotgun cocking. Kalki Dracos fired a blast that hit the scout in his stomach. Chris turned, lifting his assault rifle and drawing a bead on the male turian. Selv dived at Shepard, tackling him down the slope before he could fire at her brother.

Kalki turned back to Ducky, the scout was trying to hold his stomach together with his hands. "Too slow human. You should have stayed home with your mother."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Insignificant language from an insignificant being," the turian shot him again, this time in he head.

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Shepard was fighting mad. Whatever this thing was, it had made a mistake engaging him in close quarters combat. It might be stronger, but Green Berets were trained to beat stronger opponents.

They locked wrists in a struggle for dominance, technique against strength, adrenaline against instinct.

Chris winced as he felt a boot whistle past his face and connect with the mandibles of his opponent. With a cry, Selv fell backwards off the human, only to be set upon by a female.

Alice lashed out with the butt end of her CAR-15, beating the vaguely dinosaur like creature into a bloody blue pulp. The firing chamber on the carbine would be smashed to pieces, but she didn't dare stop hitting her target.

Hearing a cry of anger, Alice dropped her carbine and whipped out her Smith & Wesson. Seeing another of the creatures flying through the air toward her, she shot it in the chest. The effect was like throwing a sledgehammer at a brick wall. The thing fell back into the bushes.

"Come on kid!" Alice grabbed Shepard. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

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Sitris stopped briefly to retrieve a small packet from his armour. He just needed a small hit. That was all. Just a teensy, weensy sniff of that wonderful red substance to keep him going.

There, that was it. He inhaled deeply, feeling the sand rejuvenate him again. Marvellous. Now, if only he...

"BASTARD!" Mickey grabbed the salarian in a headlock as he brought him to the ground. Flipping him over, he delivered a series of crushing punches to the salarian's head, throat and chest. Sitris snarled in rabid anger, the red sand raising his pain threshold.

The two struggled back and forth among the trees. Sitris activated his plasma jet, but it wasn't full charged yet. Flames washed over Mickey, but they were too weak to incinerate him completely. Instead, his hair and uniform caught on fire. While he screamed in agony, the tough young Irishman did not relinquish his grip on Sitris.

Mickey felt pain on every inch of his body. So this was it. His final battle. And when this thing had killed him, it'd go and kill Sean. Not on Mickey's watch. Not his smart little brother. He had strength still. He had resolve. He had guts.

Sitris felt himself lifted in the air by the human's powerful arms. The salarian yelped as the human carried him toward a tree trunk, then screamed as he was impaled on the stump of a branch broken off during the fight.

Mickey felt death's icy fingers clutching at him, even as his skin blistered and burned. He could make out the shape of one of the big bastards holding a minigun coming through the trees. He remembered the M88 in his gear. Looking around, he saw it lying on the ground. His fingers were losing sensitivity. He fumbled clumsily as he picked up the Light Anti-tank Weapon.

In the distance, he could hear the sound of a minigun spooling up. That was okay, just as long as he got this shot off.

As he pressed his thumb down on the arming switch, Mickey felt the first bullets strike his body. That was funny, they didn't hurt. With a satisfied cackle, he launched the rocket at his target and roared with triumph as it impacted. Everything was so funny once you thought about it.

"_Aren't those my legs?" _He pondered the question briefly as he toppled to the ground. _"Can't be, my legs hurt, I hurt. Oh wait, never mind, I'm fine."_

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"Who's left?" Toland slid down into the creek bed. His carbine was empty again, he didn't have that many magazines still full.

"Shepard, Lancero, Bulldog, Carlos, Sean, me and you," Alice informed him. "Everyone else is gone."

"NO!" Sean tried climbing up the slope. "We have to go back for Mickey!"

"He's dead, you will be to if you try going back there," Alice pushed him back gently. "I'm sorry."

Sean clenched his fists. "What the fuck are those things?"

"I don't know," Toland was breathing heavily. "But those things bleed. And if they bleed, we can kill them."

"If you try killing one of those things without a gunship handy, you'll be dog meat," the CIA operative removed the spent shell from her .44 and inserted a fresh one. "We've got two sniper rifles, two carbines, two -16's, an M-60, a grenade launcher, a shotgun, and our sidearms. Can't fight these things with pocket change. We need to evacuate."

Toland knew what she was saying made sense, but it meant leaving six of his men behind. Unburied, unavenged. Six dead men vs six live men. He knew who his greater duty was to. "Alright, we evac. Come on."

They ran.

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**A/N: My impression of Krogan would be that today's bullets would just bounce off them. You'd need super high velocity ammunition or a lot of explosives just to penetrate their hides.**


	10. Lady Luck

Predators

Chapter Ten: Lady Luck

I don't own Bioware

_"Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn't matter whether you're a lion or gazelle - when the sun comes up, you'd better be running."_

**CENTRAL HIGHLANDS**

**COLOMBIA**

**DECEMBER 28****TH****, 2000**

**1258 HOURS**

**GRID SQUARE 278-356**

T'Livia nudged the body of Sitris. It hung limply from where the human soldier had impaled him on the broken branch of the tree. The huntress couldn't help feeling admiration for 'Mickey'. His very flesh burning, he had found the strength to dispatch one of his attackers, and shoot a rocket at Xidam.

"Careful where you put that!" The krogan snarled as Selv ran a field scanner over his shoulder. The human missile had blasted a hole in his heavy armour, and carved a large chunk out of his hide. The young warrior was luckier than he knew, another two inches to the left and it would have taken off his head.

"Stop whining," the turian's words were slurred. She had received the beating of a lifetime at the hands of the human female called 'Alice'. Kalki had been shot in the chest, almost at point blank range. His barriers had stopped the bullet, but the force of the projectile had cracked his left breast plate. Selv vowed that when she caught up with the female, she would suffer a slow death. "Your regeneration is starting to kick in. You won't be feeling any pain by tomorrow."

"Will it scar?" Xidam asked anxiously.

"Probably."

"Good," he was satisfied now. Tearing open one of the ration packs he had found on one of the humans, he gulped down the contents.

"In the name of the spirits, why is that good?" Kalki winced as Wrex bandaged his broken plate.

"The scar will show he is not lying when he says he survived a rocket at point blank range," Wrex informed the turian. "It is a sign of maturity and bravery."

"I'll take your word for it," Kalki muttered, retrieving his shotgun. "What now?"

"We follow them," Wrex answered. "We finish the hunt."

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**TRIUNE TOWER**

**NOS ASTRA, ILIUM**

"I don't believe it!" Keira announced to the audience. "For the first time on Even Chance, a hunter has been killed. Sergeant Mickey Byrne has slaughtered Sitris, and managed to wound Urdnot Xidam before succumbing to his injuries. It's not looking good for Captain Toland. He's lost half his team and is on the run. Can he flee Wrex? The krogan who has not failed in killing a target since the start of this show? Find out after this commercial break!"

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**CITADEL**

**NOVA STARLINES DOCKING BAY**

"Father, will we be able to see where the Ilium Commandoes train?" Darik asked eagerly, staring out the window of the liner.

"I'm sure we'll find time," Romus chuckled at his son's eagerness. "What about you Pel?"

"I just wanna see the view from our hotel," the younger son confessed. "The asari at school say that it's even better than the Citadel."

"I guess we'll soon find out," Romus lifted his son up onto his shoulders. "Come on, your mother's waiting for us.

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**THREE MILES NORTH OF PREVIOUS GRID SQUARE**

"Enough!" Toland panted slightly as he came to a stop. A small three mile run wouldn't usually bother him, but they couldn't hope to just run forever. "We've lost them for now."

"Not for long," Sean growled. "They'll be after us again. I can feel it."

"You can't feel shit," Alice pushed him aside. "Toland, what are you thinking?"

"Ducky...Bulldog, toss me your compass," Bob swallowed. The thin scout wordlessly reached inside his pouch and tossed Toland the device.

"That was a present from Ducky," Bulldog's eyes were slightly red. "I was always losing my compasses, so he got that for me in Bangladesh, made me carry it around everywhere till I learned my lesson."

"He was like that," Shepard wore a bitter smile. "Always making sure everyone had their shit sorted out."

"What the hell are we gonna tell his Ma?" Carlos leaned against a tree. "Sorry Mrs Lowerson, but your son got killed by something that looked vaguely like a dinosaur?"

"Shit, what about Pixie?" Sean spat out. "How did they get him?"

"Went down hard," Toland didn't look up from his compass and map. "Fired a full mag of .357's at point blank range. The SOB just smiled and kept on coming."

"This is FUBAR, how you _Yanqis _say it," Lancero was still breathing heavily. "I have lost all my men to some kind of devil."

"I say we stop right here," Sean held up his M-60. "Set up traps, catch them in a crossfire and..."

"Be killed before we can take down any of them," Alice finished his sentence for him. "We know that our weapons can't kill them, not quickly at least. But with their tech, they can wipe us out in a single volley."

"You got any ideas?" There was pure hatred burning in Sean's eyes. Hatred for anything that stood between him, and vengeance for his brother.

"No, but I think the Captain has," Alice gestured at Toland. All eyes turned toward the senior officer. He nodded.

"Okay, I think I've got something we can work with. Come in close. We're here," he indicated their grid square. "The landing zone is a fifteen mile hike. We'll easily make it there by tomorrow. Hopefully, General Waters will see the satellite footage of the firefight and send in Strikeout to pick us up."

"Still doesn't solve the problem of the guys on our tail," Shepard pointed out.

"I've got a plan to deal with them," Toland pointed at Sean and Carlos. "You two will come with me, we'll head along the side of the valley, till we reach this particularly dense section of the forest. We'll leave an obvious trail for these bastards; hopefully draw them off, or at least the bulk of them."

"And I find the others an unobtrusive path," Bulldog began to understand. "We take your heavy gear, so you can move fast. You outrun them, we stay undetected."

"The idea is to get them so lost in this jungle that they can't find their way out," Bob stood up. "No one else dies. We can beat these guys. Escape and evade, don't commit to a frontal engagement."

"Pull out on the chopper tomorrow night," Alice agreed. "Roger that. Toland...watch your ass."

"Lima Charlie," he passed her his pack, and then began slipping spare magazines into his webbing belt. "Better roll out now, before they catch up."

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**SOCOM JOINT OPERATIONS CENTRE**

**PENTAGON**

"Son of a bitch," Vance exhaled as he saw the recorded satellite footage. The trees blocked out most of it, but the constant flashes of gunfire and explosions signified a heavy firefight. "Cartels must have been stocking up on firepower."

"That settles it," Lenau stood up. "We send in Strikeout to pick them up."

"No!" Vance turned sharply. "Better to let this play out."

"Play out?" Lenau cupped his ear forward. "I don't believe I heard you correctly sir."

"You heard me fine," Vance was pale. "We're running a covert operation, in a country we have no mandate for, without approval from the oversight committee. That's a dishonourable discharge and twenty years in jail Colonel."

"Doesn't matter," the thin colonel snapped back. "We have Presidential authorisation."

"Do you think the President is really gonna come running to the rescue if we get caught?" Vance wiped a layer of perspiration of his brow. "He'll deny everything. Say we went rogue. He's a politician."

"You are discussing leaving our boys to die?"

"Not just discussing," Vance dropped his eyes to the floor. "I'm ordering a complete shutdown. They are highly trained men and they know their escape and evasion plan."

"What about my operative?" Sam became agitated. "This was her last mission!"

"Do you actually realise the level of embarrassment that would come to the United States government if we are revealed to be running a war in an allied country?" Vance demanded. "What it could do to SOCOM and the CIA's funding? Besides, they're probably already dead."

Lenau grabbed Vance by the front of his white Navy uniform. "We don't know that for sure. Strikeout can conduct a sweep at night, search for any sign of them."

Vance shoved the colonel away. "I'm not taking a chance. Lenau, you're to go back to Bragg. It's going to be hard to cover this one up, but I'm sure a 'training accident' could be arranged. Sam?"

For the first time, the female analyst looked flustered. "I'm..I'm not sure," she confessed. "We don't do those kind of things anymore."

"I suggest you look into it," Vance walked toward the elevator. "I'll wait till tomorrow to brief the President. I'll have an Air Force Gulfstream stand by to fly you back to Bragg Colonel."

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**FORT BRAGG**

**NORTH CAROLINA**

**MARRIED PERSONNEL HOUSING AREA**

"Hey Angela," Maria pushed open the back door of the Shepard's house. "Mind if I use your washing machine? Mine's on the fritz again."

"No problem," Angela called from the kitchen. "How are the kids?"

"Missing their father," popping open the lid of the washing machine, Maria began loading it. "I need to have a word with the colonel about how often Carlos gets sent away from home."

"I think it's Bob that talks them into it," Angela wiped flour of her hands.

"That man has no consideration for family," Maria sighed. "It's tragic really. He should be spending time with his little girl, not running off on extended deployments."

"I know, but he's the best man to lead them," she took a seat at the kitchen table. Suddenly she froze. "Oh hell."

"What?"

"My water just broke."

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"The tracks go in two directions," Selv pointed out. "The larger party went toward the hills, the smaller toward the river. They split up."

"Clever move," Kalki nodded. "We have to split up as well. No more than two went toward the river. One of us will be able to take them. The rest of us should go after the ones in the hills."

"No," Xidam growled. "Battlemaster, I wish to pursue these humans myself, and claim the glory of this hunt."

Wrex chuckled. "You have spirit Nephew, but against superior numbers, you might not prevail. I will accompany you, and chase the larger group of humans. Nicias, you take these two and finish off the others."

"Understood," T'Livia unsheathed her swords. "Kalki, Selv, let's go."

"I hope that the humans choose to fight," Xidam eagerly followed the trail. "For us to run them down would be demeaning."

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"SHIT!" Sean screamed as Toland bound a splint around his leg. "MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A BITCH!"

"Leave my mother out of this," Toland finished tying a knot in the thin cord. "You're ready to go."

"How much further?" Carlos turned back to scan down the hill with a set of binoculars.

"We've done about three miles," Sean grunted as Toland helped him back on his feet. "What a fucking rookie mistake. Tripping on a damn rock."

"Just bad luck," the other NCO sympathised. "But you've still got a greenstick fracture, and we've still got another twelve clicks before we get to the LZ."

Toland retrieved his pack from where he had dropped it. "We can make it. Give Sean plenty of help and don't slow down."

"With a broken leg?" Carlos queried. "No way will we be able to move fast enough."

"You have a better option?"

"As a matter of fact I do," Carlos grabbed his own pack. "I got about fifteen minutes to half an hour till they catch up with us. I'm going to get a few presents ready for them when they arrive."

"Get your ass back on that trail now," Toland snarled. "I'm not leaving you behind."

Carlos shook his head. "These things need to be stopped Cap. At least slowed down. I won't engage, but I'll make them bleed again."

Bob glanced at Sean's leg. "Alright, but you plant your traps, then follow me immediately. Hua?"

"Hua," Carlos confirmed. Heard, Understood, Acknowledged.

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"Down here!" Kalki called from a clearing. "I've found something!"

T'Livia hated to admit it, but she had gone soft. A hundred years ago, a brief stint in the jungle wouldn't have bothered her at all. Nor would killing a few dumb grunts. She was now uncomfortable with both. She was tired, scratched and unhappy. What had these humans done to deserve death? Nothing. They were just like her, back in her years as a commando. Idealistic, patriotic.

She would let the turians handle any humans they found. T'Livia didn't have the heart for it anymore.

"What is it?"

"Something tied to a tree," Kalki indicated the piece of cloth flapping in the wind. "Did the humans leave it?"

"Probably, but why?" Nicias frowned. "Some kind of warning, or marker?"

As the wind faded away, the cloth stopped moving.

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"Perfect," Bulldog muttered as he squeezed the trigger on his Barrett M82A1 .50 cal rifle.

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T'Livia prided herself on her exceptional hearing. She could detect when a musical instrument was off key, or hear a pin drop in a crowded room. So when she heard the cry of a bird startled from its nest, combined with the sight of the cloth in front of her, she activated her biotic barrier, concentrating its strength around the back of her head.

The match grade, hand loaded, fin stabilised, sabot discarding, Swiss manufactured bullet slammed into her with the kinetic energy of a hypersonic ramjet. The round flattened itself against the barrier, but the kinetic energy continued to travel. Nicias was thrown forward, head first into the soft mud and grass.

Both her auditory canals were ruptured, and her skull fractured in two places. If the bullet had hit one inch higher, her head would have been sledge hammered.

Kalki and Selv ducked for cover, narrowly evading the follow up shots. A .308 round glanced off Selv's shields, and splinters of wood dug into the side of Kalki's face from where Bulldog's second shot hit a tree.

"Ambush," Selv groaned as she crawled into cover.

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"Might have some real fancy lights," Alice remarked as she reloaded her own sniper rifle. "But they're dumb as shit."

"I'll say," Bulldog agreed. "Come on, Shepard and Lancero will be waiting for us at the river."

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"Is she alright?" Kalki began picking splinters out of his mandibles.

"Injured, but alive," Selv was angry. She took T'Livia's swords, and threw one to her twin. "We'll finish killing the humans, then come back for her."

"Agreed," Kalki's mandibles flared. "I will be glad to depart this primitive planet."

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**ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE**

**WASHINGTON D.C**

Lenau unbuttoned his jacket, undid his tie and slumped into the seat. The jet engines on the Gulfstream began warming up. With every whir, he was drawn back to when he first met Toland. Just a bright eyed Ranger, dreaming of glory. Lenau had taken that naive kid and molded him into a leader.

This was bullshit. If Vance had a few balls, they could still pull this off. But the Navy puke valued his own hide more than that of the men in the field. And there was nothing Lenau could do. Major Mohammed Ibn Saud would be preparing his Black Hawk for the flight home. Unless Strikeout decided to go rogue and rescue Toland himself, then the Green Berets were doomed.

"Fuck it," Lenau beckoned the Air Force stewardess closer. "Three fingers of scotch. Neat."

He just felt so fucking tired of all of it. Vietnam, Somalia, Colombia. All the names faded into one after a while. The military was everything to him, and if the military told him that he needed to leave his best friend to die, well then...

"Excuse me sir," the stewardess stood next to him. "You have a phone call. The pilot requests you make it brief, it has to be over before we take off."

"Thank you," Lenau took the headset. "Hello?"

"_Hello?"_ A woman's voice came on the line. _"This is Maria Estevez."_

"Hello Maria," he sighed. "How are you?"

"_Just fine Colonel," _she sounded excited. _"Angela Shepard just had her baby. A healthy ten pound little boy. He's beautiful. Anyway, we were wondering if you'd be able to get word to Chris, wherever he is."_

"Yeah, possibly. I'll call you later," Lenau disconnected the headset. He stared out the window. Standing up, he walked toward the cockpit.

"What's your name son?" He asked the pilot.

"Major Rietta sir," the young air force pilot looked over his shoulder at the Green Beret.

"Major Rietta, I was wondering if you could make a small detour."

"How big a detour?"

"Panama Pacifico."

To his credit, the major only blinked once. "Sure thing sir. Just settle in for the flight."

As he went back to his seat, Lenau felt like a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. It felt nice to be a man again.

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**A/N: Sorry this chapter's so short. I'm setting the stage for the ass-kicking in the next one.**

**Just to clarify what I meant in my last author's note. I don't think Krogan hide can repel high velocity rounds, such as those that would come from a sniper rifle or an M-16. They certainly wouldn't be killed by them, but the bullets would penetrate. But low velocity rounds, such as those coming from a M9 Beretta, would just bounce off something as thick as a krogan head fringe.**


	11. Confrontation

Predators

Chapter Eleven: Confrontation

I don't own Bioware

**PACIFICO AIRPORT**

**PANAMA CANAL ZONE**

**1645 HOURS**

In 1999, in accordance with the Torrijos-Carter Treaties, the US Military had pulled all forces out of the Panama Canal Zone, and turned over their old bases to the Panamanian government. Though now used a civilian airport, the former Howards Air Force Base was, by mutual agreement with certain government officials, occasionally used as a staging point for covert incursions into Colombia.

That was why Major Mohammed 'Strikeout' Ibn Saud, co-pilot Lieutenant James 'Movie Star' Mason, the two Crew Chiefs, Billy Fox and Chris Davies, as well as six Air Force technicians, were holed up in a small hangar down the back end of the base. There was just enough room for the MH-60 Black Hawk, a few bunks, a fridge, and the crates of ammunition and rations to be flown into the strike team in Colombia. It was hot during the day, cold at night, and an utterly miserable place to live in for any extended period of time.

Which was why, when Lenau kicked in the side door to hangar, he was surprised to find Strikeout and his team hard at work removing pieces of the helicopter's engine with the aid of an overhead crane.

"What the hell are you doing?" were his first words.

"I'm sorry Colonel," Mohammed shrugged. "But like I told Admiral Vance on the satellite phone, I can't fly my baby back to the States tonight. The engine flunked, might take me a week to repair it."

"I'm sure," Lenau felt a surge of pride. Strikeout had decided to stay, and had conjured up an excuse to do so. "How long would it take you to put it back together...if I had a very important job for you?"

Strikeout cocked his head. "How important?"

"Going in and getting Bob out of there."

The pilot gave a curse in Arabic. "Why didn't you call ahead? It'll take us hours to get Baby ready to fly again. Not until morning, at the very earliest."

"Well? Get to work," Lenau pulled his jacket off. "How can I help?"

Warrant Officer Fox unceremoniously deposited a load of oily parts into the Colonel's arms. "Sort those out, then maybe we can get the rotor system back online."

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**CENTRAL HIGHLANDS**

**ATACAZ VALLEY**

**COLOMBIA**

"See here nephew," Wrex beckoned Xidam closer. "Two have gone on ahead, one of them injured. The other has gone his own way. Which do you wish to have for yourself?"

"I will take the one on his own Uncle," Xidam eagerly gripped his minigun. "He will be the more challenging prey."

"As you wish," Wrex nodded. "I will pursue the other two. Good hunting nephew. We shall drink ryncol on Ilium when this is over."

"Good hunting Uncle, I shall pay for the drinks," Xidam made a suppliant gesture. The young krogan was respectful of his elders and betters. Self awareness was something Wrex had taught him, and Xidam knew he had a few centuries of experience to gain before he could ever match someone like his uncle.

Wrex set off along the first trail, his gigantic stride soon carrying him out of sight. Xidam chose to wait for a few minutes. This was to be his hunt, his victory. He had two so far. 'Pixie' and 'Mickey'. He hoped this one would be 'Toland'. To slay a Battlemaster, albeit one inferior to a krogan, would be a great victory.

Remembering the advice Wrex had offered to him, Xidam kept his pace slow, scanning the trees, almost firing twice on shadows. Deeper and deeper into the tree line he walked, the pounding thrill of the chase in his mind echoing in stark contrast to the cautious movements of his body.

"Are you there human!" he shouted out loud. "Cowering? Hoping I won't find you? I am krogan! I hunt everything, you cannot hide from me!"

He thought he heard a snort of derision. A voice echoed around him.

"Boy, you are one ugly motherfucker."

Xidam spun to his right, hand clamping down on the trigger. As the minigun began to spool up, the krogan was treated to the sight of a massive tree stump swinging toward him. It smashed into his minigun first, turning the expensive weapon into a heap of metal. He didn't have quite enough time to bemoan his loss as the main body of the trunk hit his right arm.

Flying back several metres, Xidam slid to a halt. He flailed his legs, trying to get back on his feet.

Carlos came out of the trees, M-16 in hand. At point blank range, he fired the magazine straight into Xidam's face. The high velocity rounds pierced his skin, but didn't penetrate very far. Instead of killing the krogan, they just made him angry.

Bellowing with fury, Xidam climbed to his feet. Carlos smiled arrogantly, then struck him in the face with the butt end of his rifle. Further infuriated, Xidam charged after the Green Beret, ignoring the occasional burst of fire coming from the dark skinned soldier. Nothing mattered to Xidam but his enemy's blood. Pain and rage almost overwhelmed his senses.

"Too slow, _gordo_," Carlos laughed, then shouted with alarm as he tripped over a slight rise in the ground, and came to a sprawling halt at the edge of a small clearing Glancing back at the charging krogan with terror in his eyes, he began crawling across the clearing. Flipping over onto his back, he fired off his Beretta's magazine in a last, desperate blaze.

"Out of ideas?" Xidam came to a halt, breathing heavily.

"Hey, look _mano_, maybe we can talk about this?" Carlos pleaded, pushing himself backwards as the krogan began walking toward him. "I got money okay? Not much, but enough. Hey man, I got a family to look after. Why don't you cut me a break?"

"I too have a family," Xidam paused as Carlos stopped moving. "And your death will bring me much glory among them."

Drawing his knife, Xidam stepped forward with a triumphant roar...that turned to a cry of horror as he plunged through the thin layer of grass and reeds that Carlos had woven together and pulled across the pit in the middle of the clearing. For a brief second, the krogan's weight was supported by the log extended over the middle of the pit, the one that Carlos had gotten across on. But an old, rotten log couldn't support the weight of a twenty year old krogan. It collapsed, sending him plummeting ten feet downwards.

Carlos got to his feet easily, no trace of any injury from his 'fall'. He gazed over the edge of the pit, at the monster impaled on the sharpened spikes at the bottom. Xidam wasn't dead, but he could feel the wooden stakes penetrating his stomach and lungs.

"Big, ugly and dumb as well," Carlos taunted the hunter. "For the record, I didn't dig the pit. I just found it and camouflaged it. Fucking paranoid cartels. Guess I should thank them huh?"

"You should...run human," Xidam groaned. "When I get out of here, you shall suffer horribly."

"News flash buddy boy," Carlos leaned over the edge. "You ain't getting out of there? You know why? 'Cos you aren't down there all on your lonesome. There's twelve pounds of C4 to keep you company. Figured it was the best way to kill you bastards. Adios amigo. Say hi to Satan for me."

"No! WAIT!" Xidam struggled furiously as Carlos walked away. "STOP!"

Carlos reached into his pocket, pulled out the detonator and thumbed the trigger.

The explosion was loud and satisfying. "Hope you saw that one from Heaven, Mickey boy," the Staff Sergeant blinked back tears. "Glad I could get the bastard for you."

The sound of the C4 exploding was still ringing in his ears. This was why he did not hear the footsteps behind him, or the sound of somebody swinging a club at the back of his head. To be fair, he was unconscious and on the ground before these sounds could really sink in.

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Pablo Melendez stared curiously at the unconscious man lying on the ground before him. Some scouts had reported hearing gunfire, and heading toward it, only to see a massive explosion. This man had been caught trying to escape the area.

"Yes brother," Pablo repeated into his phone. "I was right. The _Yanqis _have sent their Ranger assassins after us. We have captured one."

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**FOUR MILES EAST**

"Excellent work Pablo," Enrique congratulated his brother "We have also found something, but what it is, we do not know."

In front of him, his men clustered around the unconscious body of Nicias T'Livia, tentatively poking at her with the muzzles of their AK-47s.

"I am going to work toward the river. See what I can find."

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"Did you get them?" Chris asked Bulldog and Alice as they arrived on the riverbank.

"Got at least one, winged another," Alice confirmed. "Gonna have to get me one of those Barrett's, that thing's magic."

"Yep, well, if you ever need a decent longshot, Angelina is the girl to go to," Bulldog patted his rifle affectionately. "As a matter of fact..."

"GET DOWN!" Shepard pushed Bulldog aside and tried to bring his M-16 up with one hand. Although a light weapon, the rifle was too barrel heavy to be handled this easily. Chris was unable to fire before a single pistol shot hit him in the stomach.

There were a series of dull clacks, telling Alice that a weapon had just jammed. Lancero fired several bursts into the trees with his M-4 Carbine, Bulldog followed suit with his MP5. There was a pregnant pause as they ceased firing.

Kalki leapt out of the tree line and viciously slashed at Bulldog, neatly bisecting his sub machine gun, tearing through his assault vest and sending him crashing to the ground, clutching at the wound on his chest.

Selv chose to pistol whip Lancero across the jaw with her now useless weapon, knocking the young lieutenant unconscious. In the span of a few seconds, Alice found herself alone against the two aliens.

"Hello Alice," Selv twirled her blade in the air. "How nice of you to wait for us."

"Yes," Kalki agreed. "We were so worried you'd make us chase you. We wanted to have some fun this evening before we leave."

Alice could have gone for her M40. She could have drawn her eight inch .44 and blazed away. She chose not to. Reaching for the sheath on her back, she deliberately drew her Brazilian Special Forces machete. Holding it in her right hand, she pulled out her long bladed Fairbairn-Sykes Commando dagger with her left.

Kendo wasn't something she spent a great deal of time learning. It was more like a hobby. But right now? She was a fucking zen master. Her eyes were perfectly calm as she stared down her opponents.

"Bring it."

Metal clashed upon metal as the duel began.

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**TRIUNE TOWER**

**NOS ASTRA, ILIUM**

"Ma'am, maybe we should discontinue the hunt," one of Keira's advisors whispered into her ear as the human blocked both the strikes and swung back with her own. "We have already lost two hunters."

"Are you serious," Keira's eyes were wide with excitement. "Ratings are off the charts. We've got call ins from every planet in Citadel space, cheering for the humans. This might be the most watched episode of all time. "Where's Wrex at the moment?"

"Just coming up on the other two now ma'am."

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"Enough!" Sean pushed Toland away. "I'm not going any further. I'll fucking fight them right here!"

"You're going to get your ass up and walking, or I'm going to kick you the rest of the way," Toland informed him.

"I'm not going to get shot in the back running away," the Sergeant snarled. "If I die, it's going to be on my terms. You can keep going sir. You've got a little girl to get back to. But Mickey was my only family. If I can get at least one of these bastards before they get me...well then I'm all good with the universe."

Toland considered arguing. He heard the cry of a bird, angrily startled from its nest. "Okay, get into cover on the right side of the trail. I'll take the left. You got any goodies?"

"Some grenades and a Claymore."

"Gimme the Claymore, I think I know how to take this thing down."

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Wrex could smell sweat and gun oil. He was gaining on the humans quickly. He wondered if Xidam had taken care of his target yet. His nephew would be a good warrior someday, if only he learned to pay more attention to his surroundings. The Battlemaster privately wondered how long it would be till some government agency shut down Triune's show. It was bound to happen eventually.

Well, he still had a lot of credits saved up from the job protecting that volus guy from Aleena, maybe he could take a holiday for a while? Plenty of planets in the galaxy with good beaches, hot sand, the occasional bar to start a fight in when he got bored. Sounded like a good back up plan. The Shadow Broker was always hiring if that didn't work out.

Of course, he had to take into account...

Sean waited till the monster was dead in his sights, then opened fire. The 7.62mm rounds from his M-60 slammed into Wrex, knocking him off his feet and sending him scrambling for cover. The heavy rounds had sufficient velocity to penetrate the weak spots in his armour and sting his hide.

Activating his biotics, Wrex strode toward Sean's position, firing his shotgun as fast as the heatsink would permit.

Sean began tossing grenades, as fast as he could pull the pins. The frags exploded right in front of Wrex, the shrapnel bouncing off his barrier, but the concussive force slightly disorienting him. After all six of his grenades were gone, Sean resumed firing his machine gun.

Flanking Wrex's left side, Toland squeezed off several bursts from his carbine. Now under attack from both sides, Wrex could feel a sudden loss of energy as his body regenerated. His bleeding became more noticeable. He had to change the playing field.

Extending his arm, Wrex sent a pulse of biotic energy toward the heavy gunner.

"What the fuck!" Sean yelled as he felt himself floating toward the sky. Dropping his M-60, he grabbed a branch and tried to halt his ascension.

With one of the threats incapacitated, Wrex charged toward Toland. Toland rolled out of the way, and then fumbled for his bayonet, clipping it onto the end of his carbine. Wrex drew his own knife, then swung at Toland's head. Blocking the swing with the carbine's barrel, Toland thrust forward at the joint on Wrex's armour, around the area that a human's heart would be located.

Wrex grunted as the bayonet stabbed through the weak spot and made its way into the edge of his lung. "Right idea human. Wrong location."

Giving a twist, he snapped the bayonet in half. Toland was left holding an empty carbine and a ruined blade. Reaching out, Wrex wrapped his left hand around Toland's throat and lifted him off the ground. Bob gasped for air as he fumbled for his holster. Drawing his Colt, he placed the barrel right against Wrex's eye. "Drop me."

"No," with his other hand, Wrex grabbed the pistol and twisted it out of Toland's grip. He paused to examine the handgun. There was a name engraved into the side. "Sally?"

"My mother," Toland explained.

"Very sentimental," Wrex tightened his grip. "But primitive and useless nonetheless."

"Actually," Bob gasped. "Just a distraction."

Wrex saw the small plastic casing in Toland's hand, then saw the grin on his face. The next thing he felt was seven hundred steel ball bearings tearing into his stomach and chest. The force of the explosion threw Wrex backwards and over the edge of the slope.

Dropping onto the ground, Toland drew in several deep breaths, then checked to see if he still had all his body parts.

"I didn't think that was going to work," Sean limped toward him. "You're off the fucking chain Cap. What were you thinking strapping a Claymore to your chest?"

"Seemed a good idea at the time," Bob groaned, he felt like he had been punched in the stomach a thousand times. The M18 Claymore mine came with only one set of instructions, printed on the blast plate in large, friendly letters. FRONT TOWARDS ENEMY. You could be standing right behind the charge and be completely unscathed when it detonated. Toland had used them thousands of times. But he had never attached one to his chest and detonated it. That was generally considered to be the territory of suicide bombers. "I want to make sure he's dead."

"No bloody fear!" Sean grabbed his shoulder. "That bastard's dead sir. And if he's not, then we really don't want to go chasing him."

"I guess so," Toland retrieved his carbine, there was a large nick in the grip where the knife had impacted. "Come on, let's get out of here."

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At the bottom of the gully, Wrex attempted to lift himself up. There was no response from his legs. He was fairly certain that some very important things had been shot to pieces in the explosion. The human had outthought him. That hurt more than the physical pain. Wrex had never been this badly injured before. Not even when he had been carried back into the camp of Urdnot after slaying the Thresher Maw, broken and bleeding, but triumphant.

This was worse. It would take a while to regenerate from this one.

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Alice was in the river now, the water up to her knees. The turians had height and strength, driving her back step by step. She wasn't attacking, she was defending. Her arms felt like lead weights as she blocked another thrust from Kalki and slashed wildly with her machete.

"You're weak old woman," the male twin laughed."Why not give up now and spare yourself the effort? I want that shiny pistol of yours for a souvenir."

Ducking past his blade, Alice nicked Kalki's arm. Blue blood dripped into the water. "Come and take it then."

Kalki gazed in astonishment at his injury. That was third time this woman had drawn his blood. Unlike a krogan, he didn't consider shedding blood in battle to be something honourable. A turian considered it foolish, a sign of a weak warrior. He drove her further back into the river.

"Raaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhh!"

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This was not his usual hunting ground. He preferred the estuaries on the coastline, where livestock was plentiful. But the locals had been hunting him with the loud sticks. The monster was cunning. It knew that the humans would eventually trap him. So he swam up river, away from those who knew he was there. Eventually had reached this branch of the river. Life was good here. There was plenty of fish to sustain him, and the occasional jungle animal wading too close to the river bank.

But as he slept in his nest, he heard something. A harsh clash of metal. Poking his long snout outside the river, he saw something. Three figures, waist deep in his river. He felt hungry. He slid out of his nest and drifted slowly toward them.

One of them was a human, but the other two smelled differently. He wondered how they tasted. Selecting the nearest one he opened his mouth and clamped his powerful teeth around his target.

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Selv screamed. "Brother! Something has me!"

Kalki ceased his assault on Alice and turned his head toward his sister. "What?"

"I don't know," she began thrusting downward with her sword. "Something powerful!"

Kalki waded toward her and stabbed at the water. "It is some kind of lizard!"

"Must be a crocodile," Alice spoke from behind Kalki. He froze. How could he have forgotten her in his haste to help his sister? "I'd give you a hand...actually...I wouldn't. Never mind."

Swinging her machete, Alice separated Kalki's head from his body. Drawing her .44, she shot Selv in the head. Quickly wading up onto the river bank she nodded to the eyes staring at her from out of the water. "Thanks a lot mate. Saved my life."

Picking up Lancero's carbine, she sighted on the crocodile and emptied the magazine into it. "But I still need to get across the river, and you're in the way."

The current was fast. The bodies of Kalki, Selv and the monster of the river were quickly dragged down the river. Lancero groaned as he regained consciousness. "What happened?"

"Nothing much," Alice tossed him a first aid pack. "Patch up Bulldog, I'll try to stabilise Shepard."

The two worked as fast as possible. Bulldog's slash proved to be shallow and easy to staunch. Shepard's body armour had slowed down the bullet somewhat, but it was still a nasty gunshot wound.

Alice slung Bulldog's rifle across her back, then moved to the scout's side. "Help me get him up. We'll cross at the shallow part, then come back for Shepard."

"Right," Lancero was still dazed by the blow to his head. Grabbing Shepard's M-16 and his own M-4, he put the slings over his neck, then linked his hands underneath Bulldog's armpits.

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Enrique Melendez held up a hand and gestured his mercenaries to stop. Lying on the sandy riverbank was a fair skinned man in camouflaged clothing. On the other side of the river, a grey haired woman and a Latino man, also in camouflaged clothing, were gently lowering a fourth man onto the ground.

"_Yanqui's!_" Enrique hissed. "We will wait for them to come back, then take them prisoner."

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Shepard was awoken by chattering coming from the trees. His senses were dulled slightly. Someone must have dosed him with morphine. What were the voices saying? He couldn't tell, they were speaking in Spanish. Wait, didn't he speak Spanish? Straining his ears, he caught the words 'ambush' and 'vengeance'. Oh shit. Cartels.

"ALISH!" His words came out slurred, but they were loud. "RUN!"

With a curse, Enrique snatched an AK-47 away from one of his men and fired it on full automatic at the people on the far bank.

Alice grabbed Bulldog and dragged him into the jungle. "Lancero, get your ass back here!"

"What about Shepard?" Lancero raised his carbine and fired off a few bursts.

"We can't help him if we get ourselves killed!"

Slinging Bulldog over her shoulder, Alice ran away from the fight, silently raging. She'd try and come back for Shepard, preferably with the whole 7th Special Forces Group behind her. But even she couldn't go up against a platoon of mercenaries with only a few rifles.

They had defeated one devil, only to be hounded by another.

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"Hello _Americano_," Enrique bent over Shepard's body. "Welcome to Colombia."

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**A/N: As Mordin would say: Fucking with Green Berets? Implications unpleasant. For anyone calling bullshit on the Claymore, let me assure you, my science is correct. It is a completely directional fragmentation grenade. Toland was wearing an assault vest between his skin and the Claymore, though powered by C4, would not kill you, even in direct contact with your skin, as long as you're not in the killzone.**


	12. Strange Bedfellows

Predators

Chapter Twelve: Strange Bedfellows

I don't own Bioware

"_The enemy of my enemy is my friend."  
-Arabian Proverb_

**COLOMBIA**

**CENTRAL HIGHLANDS**

**NEAR LANDING ZONE 'VICTOR'**

**DECEMBER 29****TH****, 0630 HOURS**

The Black Hawk was like a paintbrush in Major Ibn Saud's hands. Strikeout guided the black helicopter low, just above the treetops. Both Crew Chiefs were on their guns, scanning the jungle below. If the satellite images were correct, and the cartels had some heavy firepower stocked up, then the gunners would need to work fast to protect the chopper.

"That's LZ Victor over there," Strikeout pointed toward a clearing, just coming into view. "Fox, keep your GAU spooled up, we're going to circle."

Lenau activated the radio, praying that the transmitter would connect with Toland's line of sight equipment. =Rook, this is Mother. Rook this is Mother. Come in Rook=

Static answered him on the line. =Come on Rook. Pick up the damn line=

"What do we do if he's not down there?" Lieutenant Mason asked Strikeout.

"We've got enough fuel for about an hour of circling, then we have to hightail it back to Panama," Strikeout peered out his own window. "Bob'll be there. He's never missed a dust-off in all the time I've known him."

=Howdy Mother= the comm line crackled as Toland's voice came through. =What are you doing here?=

=Thought you could use a hand= the Colonel laughed with relief. =Where are you?=

=Me and Rage are holed up a click from the LZ. Haven't heard anything from the others. We took some KIA sir=

=I heard= Lenau swallowed. =We're setting down on the LZ now. Can you move?=

=Negative, Sean's got a busted leg and he's walked all night. Can't go any further=

=Understood, we'll come and get you=

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In fifteen minutes Sean was stretched out on the Blackhawk's fuselage, dosed up on morphine, wrapped up in blankets. Fox had examined his injury and proclaimed it noncritical. The two crew chiefs had taken their M-16s and set up a makeshift perimeter to watch for any wandering natives. LZ Victor was off the beaten track, but by mutual agreement, nowhere was to be considered safe anymore.

"We wait thirty minutes, then we have to get out of here," Strikeout checked his watch. "We can't risk staying on the ground too long."

"Mo, we have to stay longer," Toland shakily gripped a thermos of coffee, pouring it into a tin mug. "Half my team's still out there. I can't leave them behind."

"Bob, this might be a bad time to mention it," Lenau rested his hand on Toland's shoulder. "Angela's had her baby. Shepard's a father now. I know how you feel, it's why I came down, but we can't stay here forever. If they..."

=Head's up= Fox radioed back from his OP. =We got guys coming through the scrub=

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The Warrant Officer flicked off the safety on his rifle, setting it to full automatic. He was qualified as competent on the rifle, his profession wasn't that of a sharpshooter. Billy preferred sitting behind a minigun to grunt work. Still, as a 160th Nightstalker, he had to cope with the sometimes crazy situations he found himself in. "Identify yourself!"

A woman's voice spoke up from a few metres in front of him. "If you don't stop pointing that rifle at me, I'm going to shove it so far down your throat you'll shit bullets. How's that for identification?"

"Proof positive," Fox lowered the weapon. "Chopper's just through the treeline."

"Thanks...moron," Alice, Bulldog and Lancero stumbled toward the clearing. Bulldog had insisted on walking under his own power. Alice had formed a rapid admiration for the sniper. He was in agony from his chest wound, the morphine had worn off hours ago, but with the help of a branch Alice had to down and trimmed into a crutch, he had kept up with the other two during the long night walk.

"Didn't expect to see you again," Alice took the coffee thermos off Toland and took a deep swig. "After we got the skinny ones, I thought the big ones got you."

"Tough skin," Toland winced as he considered the back blast from the Claymore slamming into the strike plates in his assault vest. He'd have those marks for a while. "Where's Shepard?"

"Captured by the cartels," she replied curtly. "They're on our tail, we've got a few hours till they catch up with us. I suggest we leave and..."

Toland didn't both listening to the rest of the CIA operator's 'suggestion'. He grabbed his carbine and a few fresh magazines from the Blackhawk's onboard stash. Donning his assault vest and stowing some grenades in his pack, Toland began walking toward the trees. Alice stepped in front of him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To get my friend."

"That's suicide," she informed him politely.

"You don't have to come," Toland shrugged. "I talked him into coming, so it's my responsibility to get him out alive."

"We've lost enough good men already, you can't go..."

"You don't know shit about those men," Toland shoved her out of the way. "Pixie was my friend, he was like a brother to me. I trained Mickey. Ducky trained me. They got killed by some kind of fucking aliens. Carlos is probably dead by now. If Chris is alive, I'm going to get him."

"Bob!" Lenau's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Alice is right. If you off now, on your own, you'll die faster than a swamp alligator in hunting season."

"What do you suggest then?"

Lenau looked back at Strikeout. "How far is it to the Melendez compound?"

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**OBSERVATION POST CHARLIE 27**

**OVERLOOKING MELENDEZ CARTEL HEADQUARTERS**

**SIXTY MILES SOUTH**

"Well?" Alice nudged Toland's prone form. "What do you see?"

"Two trucks entering the compound," he answered. "First one's got a shitload of mercs in it. Second one has...yeah, I see Chris and...fuck, they got Carlos as well."

"Guess he took down the other big one," Alice lifted her rifle up. She wasn't planning to shoot, she just needed the scope. "Looks alright, no major injuries. Chris took one to the gut, but it glanced off his Kevlar, went in sideways. Still needs a hospital, but he'll live, at least, if they keep changing the bandages and don't jolt him too much."

"That's a great comfort," Toland growled. "Hold on, the mercs in truck one aren't alone. They got that weird chick with them, one of the aliens. Still alive too by the look of it."

"I still don't see the point of this," Alice lowered her rifle. "They've got heavy guns in those towers, and near a hundred guards. Now if you want to go back to the States and come back with some Rangers, I'm with you. Because as much as I hate to repeat myself, going in there is..."

"Suicide, I know," Toland frowned. "We've got you, me, Lancero, the Colonel, and the Blackhawk. Sean and Bulldog can't fight. We need something to level the playing field."

"What are you thinking of?"

"You're not going to like it."

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**DOCTOR DRAISON'S DISCO**

**NOS ASTRA, ILIUM**

"Arrian, good to see you my friend," Romus embraced his old squad leader. The club was loud and noisy, perfect for a covert meeting. "How's life treating you?"

"Fairly well," Arrian grinned. "The mercenary business is paying well at the moment. You're not here to arrest me are you?"

"Not yet," Romus joked. "I want to give you a joke. There's an asari I need brought to the Citadel."

"Any bounty?"

"This isn't a sanctioned hunt," Romus kept his voice low. "Off the books."

"I'll give you a twenty percent discount," Arrian picked up his drink. "For old time's sake. Who's the mark."

"Keira Triune."

Arrian spat out a mouthful of Palaven brandy. "You're insane!"

"Can you do it?"

"Maybe...probably. Consider that discount cancelled though."

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Wrex could fell his strength slowly returning. Experimentally moving his fingers, he decided it was time to get moving. Call the quarian down to pick him up, find out where the rest of his team was, then get off the planet. The hunt had failed, some of the humans had escaped. It was time for him to cut his losses.

Climbing back onto his feet, Wrex staggered a little, then stabilised himself against a tree. His stomach still hurt, but it was a dull pain, something he could endure. He glanced back up the slope. Damn it all, where were Xidam and T'Livia?

Something slammed into the back of his hump, he toppled over again. Rolling onto his back, he found himself staring into the barrel of a very big rifle. Behind the rifle was Captain Robert Toland, with his finger tensed on the trigger.

"Before we begin, let me make one thing abundantly clear," Toland stepped backward, out of Wrex's reach. "Right now, there is nothing I want more than to kill you. You've killed my friends, ruined my mission, and given me a set of sore ribs into the bargain. Added to that, you're just plain ugly."

"Spare me the insults human," Wrex growled. "If you're going to kill me, then kill me."

"Unfortunately for both of us, we need each other," Toland countered. "You've killed six of mine, I've killed four of yours. But right now, some scumbag drug dealers have two of mine and one of yours as prisoners. If I don't get my men out, they'll be killed. You are going to help me get them out."

"And if I refuse?"

"You seem like a smart lizard," Toland gestured with the end of his weapon. "You figure it out. I think that the enemy of my enemy is screwed, because now we both want him dead."

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**MELENDEZ CARTEL COMPOUND**

**BASEMENT**

"Wake up American," Pablo patted Carlos on his cheek. The soldier stirred slightly. Pablo slapped him. "Wake up!"

"_Hijo de puta!_" Carlos spat at Pablo, trying to charge forward and finding himself held up. The explosives expert's hands were above his head, handcuffed and linked by a chain to a bar on the ceiling. "Untie me _pendejo_, then we'll see who's the tough guy!"

"Such arrogance," Pablo grinned. "Typical of an American. You should not have come."

"I wouldn't have, but I just couldn't resist," Carlos twisted slightly, trying to work his hands out of the cuffs. "Mama used to say my curiosity would get me into trouble one day."

"You should have listened to her," Pablo spoke sympathetically. Carlos began to take notice of his surroundings. The small room was bare, save for a small bed, on which Shepard was curled up, clutching his wound. "Your friend was the only one we took alive. The rest died well I am told."

Carlos felt another pang of anger. "Liar."

"Perhaps," Pablo circled the Staff Sergeant. "Perhaps not. In any case, you needn't worry yourself about them. You should be concerned with your own fortunes."

"Fuck you."

"That's the spirit," Pablo had admiration in his voice. "Defiance. Bravery. Exactly what I expected from a Ranger assassin."

"I'm not a Ranger. I'm a tourist," for the first time, Carlos smiled.

"Ah _si,_" Pablo nodded. "You're a tourist dressed in camouflage, carrying an American rifle, an American pistol, and American army equipment."

"All of my gear can be bought in Panama, the black market guys warned me that the wildlife down here required some firepower to deal with," Carlos shook his head. "This is all a big misunderstanding. If you just get in touch with the embassy..."

"Embassy?" Pablo was amazed. "You think this is Moscow? That you are an agent that can claim diplomatic immunity? You are a uniformed soldier, fighting an illegal war. You have no rights."

"Wrong. From a purely hypothetical standpoint, if I was a soldier, this would be a police action. You are a criminal."

Pablo jabbed forward, punching Carlos in the solar-plexus. His breath exhaled in a violent burst, he coughed violently, gasping for breath. When he had recovered, he stared up at his captor. "I stand corrected. An honourless bastard as well as a criminal."

"I'm a businessman," Pablo regained his composure. "I buy and sell, just like any American trader."

"Most American traders don't fund private wars, rape their enemy's wives and children, and sell poison to idiots," Carlos sneered. "You'd turn tail and piss yourself if you ever went up against a real fighter."

"We'll see how cocky you are when I cut your balls off and stuff them down your throat," the younger brother told him. "Hey, Angelo, you still got that picture?"

"Right here boss," one the cartel heavies passed him a small photograph. Pablo chuckled as he examined it. Holding it up to Carlos, he allowed him to look at it.

Carlos drew a sharp breath. He always kept a photo of Maria and the kids in his leg pocket, to remind himself why he was fighting. They must have searched him thoroughly while he was knocked out. Pablo now had it.

"Your wife is _exquisite_," Pablo whistled. "What was it you accused me of? Enjoying the spouses of my dead foes?"

"FUCK YOU!" Carlos swung forward, lashing out with his boot. His foot caught Pablo square in the groin. The man collapsed backwards, clutching at the wounded area.

"You're going to regret that," he spoke in a high pitched voice, strained with agony. "Angelo, Hernando!"

The two thugs moved forward. Carlos again kicked out, but missed. Angelo grabbed him, holding him still while Hernando set to work with his massive fists, turning Carlos' ruggedly handsome face into a bloody mess.

Pablo staggered out of the room, to be greeted by Enrique. His older brother was restraining his amusement. "So brother, your chances for children have been severely decreased I see."

"Most amusing," Pablo groaned, collapsing against the wall as a debilitating ache took over his legs. "I will enjoy killing that one. His friend too. Dump their corpses on the footsteps of the American embassy. That ought to send a message."

"Indeed," Enrique sat beside him. "What do you think of the woman?"

"She is strangely formed," Pablo frowned. "An experiment by the Americans maybe?"

"Maybe. She is badly injured at any rate. I doubt she will last more than a few days."

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Wrex looked at Toland, then at his rifle. He weighed his options. "I help you free our friends. Then you and I will settle this."

"Agreed," Toland relaxed his grip slightly. "But what guarantee do I have that you'll keep your word?"

"I swear on my grandfather's grave," Wrex raised his right hand. "I will not kill you until this is over."

Toland felt an almost uncontrollable urge to pull the trigger, to avenge his friends. He shook slightly, then lowered the rifle. "Alright. Come with me."

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"This is impossible," Lenau stared at the alien. "I'm lying in a dumpster outside the bar. I had too many whiskeys, the bouncer tossed me out."

"That would be preferable to the current situation," Alice kept her sniper rifle pointed in Wrex's direction. "Okay, you got your massive alien warrior Toland. Now what?"

Toland tossed Wrex Sean's M60. The krogan examined the weapon curiously. "Now, we do the job of a battalion with a squad."

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**A/N: Can one krogan and some Green Berets beat a hundred Cartel soldiers? Can Romus kidnap Keira and get her to the Citadel? Will Wrex and Toland still end up killing each other?**


	13. Liberation

Predators

Chapter Thirteen: Liberation

I don't own Bioware

"_I will never surrender, though I be the last._

_If I am captured, I pray that I will have the strength to spit upon my captors."  
-US Special Forces Creed._

**MELENDEZ CARTEL COMPOUND**

**DECEMBER 29****TH****, 1820 HOURS**

Hernando strode out on the balcony, breathing in deeply. The sunlight was beginning to dim, the day coming to an end. Taking a damp cloth, he methodically cleaned the blood of the _Yanqui_ off his hands. A part of him felt pity for the man. Certainly, his fate when Pablo killed him tomorrow would be something hideous to witness. Still, that was what happened when someone angered the Cartel. Hernando had killed many men in his time, some of them had been friends. It didn't matter.

His loyalty was to the highest bidder. And no one could outbid the cartel.

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"Chris," Carlos' words were slurred. "Chris, you still with me?"

"Yeah," Shepard's voice was weak. "Yeah, I'm fine. How about you?"

"Not gonna win any beauty contests any time soon," Carlos tried to lighten the mood. "But I think it should make me more handsome in the long run. Shouldn't detract from my rugged good looks."

"Might actually improve them," Shepard agreed, sitting up slightly, he saw the full extent of his friends injuries. "You look pretty fucked up."

"I agree," Carlos winced. "Felt some bones breaking. Those guys worked me over pretty good."

"You and your big mouth."

"Tell me about it."

"You know they're going to kill us, right?"

"Only if my cunning escape plan fails," he began tugging at his chains.

"What's your cunning escape plan."

"Still working on it _mano_."

"If you can get free," Shepard lay back on the wooden boards. "Don't bother taking me. You got a family to get back to."

"So do you Chris," Carlos grunted. "So do you."

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**RIDGELINE OVERLOOKING COMPOUND**

"How the hell do you use this thing?" Sean settled into position behind the sights of the Barrett .50 cal. "Not even sure I can hit anything."

"We're within seven hundred yards man," Bulldog adjusted the scope of Alice's M40. "That's a playground shot for a fifty."

"Whatever," Sean racked a round into the chamber. "If this works, Carlos is buying me beers for the rest of my life."

"If this works, I'll buy you drinks for the rest of the year." Bulldog prepared to shoot. "We just have to get to a bar before New Year's Day."

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**FRONT GATE**

"Hold up," the man the guardhouse walked out to the truck as it pulled up at the entrance to the compound. "Why are you late?"

"Sorry _jefe_," the peon at the wheel of the truck seemed penitent. "I was delayed on the road."

The guard frowned. The man's accent seemed a little different from that of the local peasants. It was more elegant, flowing. His skin shade seemed a little off, not quite Colombian. Admittedly, he had the scrawny build of a peasant, but just to be on the safe side...

"Let me see your permit," he unslung his AK-47. "Just routine."

"My permit," the peon seemed confused. "Ah yes, my permit. Just one second."

The man reached into the glovebox on his truck. The guard felt a little ridiculous. The stupid peasant probably didn't even know which of the pieces of paper entitled him to drive the luxuries the Melendez brothers enjoyed from the train station to the compound. The guard glanced away, and then back at the driver.

"Here is my permit," the peasant said happily as he shot the guard twice in the chest with a silenced Colt .45.

As guard collapsed backward, the tarpaulin stretched over the back of the truck was thrown off. Lancero and Toland leapt from amongst the frozen packets of steak and bottles of champagne, grabbed the guard's body and hustled it into the bushes.

"I knew I should have been the driver," Lancero pulled himself back into the truck. "Colonel Lenau's accent isn't good enough for him to pass as a native."

"We needed someone who looked like a peasant," Toland cocked his carbine. "Your build would have given you away. Needed a scrawny bastard like the Colonel."

"I heard that." Lenau spoke through the window from the driver's cabin.

Wrex shifted uncomfortably. "I do not understand this plan at all. You say we do not have the strength for an all out assault, and yet we are going right through the front door of this stronghold."

"Well, if I timed it right, their attention should be elsewhere," the Green Beret said coldly. "And how can you even understand us. I doubt aliens speak English."

"Translator in my omni-tool," Wrex replied. "Automatically takes language, grammar, syntax and..."

"Excuse me, omni tool?" Lancero inquired. "What does this mean?"

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Pablo and Enrique's father had chosen the site for his mansion well. Overlooking a cliff and the river below it, any rival cartels or government soldiers would be forced to attack up the slope on the other side. The cliff was proclaimed unclimbable by the architect in charge. That architect had never met Alice.

"I'm too old for this shit," she muttered, gripping tighter to a small outcropping and slowly dragging herself up the wall. Her boots had climbing studs attached to them to make her ascension easier, but she didn't have the same kind of upper body strength now that she had had in Vietnam. She could still do it, but it was slow going. Especially when she was weighed down by a pack filled with C4.

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"Take the food round to the back, to the kitchens," Hernando called out to the driver as he pulled the truck up to the front steps.

"Ah, _Si senor_!" the driver called cheerfully as he turned the wheel toward the rear driveway.

"Stupid peasants," Hernando muttered, lighting up a cigarette and enjoying the spectacular sunset. He paused for a second, seeing a flash as sunlight reflected off something up in the hills.

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"Eight ball in the corner pocket," Sean squeezed the trigger. The Barrett's recoil made him wince. It's bullet tore a gaping hole in the chest of the man on the balcony.

Bulldog fired a second later. The .308 round made small, neat hole in the forehead of a sentry on the rooftops...and a bloody, ugly, jagged maw out of the back of his skull.

Switching targets, the Green Berets fired in tandem. Unused to the heavy rifle, two of Sean's rounds missed their targets. It was an annoyance but didn't matter too much. They were meant to stir up the hornet's nest, and get the hornet's looking in the wrong direction.

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"You! Peasant! Out of the truck now!" Angelo was pleasantly drunk. He was looking for some fun, and robbing this stupid peon seemed a wonderful way to pass his afternoon. "Get walking back to the village."

"But _senor_!" Lenau protested. "This truck is all I have. My children will go hungry if I have to save to buy another one."

"Grass can be very nutritional when properly cooked," Angelo guffawed, then gestured to one of the guards. "Luiz, allow the idiot to finish his delivery, then make sure he goes home on foot."

*_Plink* *Plink*_

Toland and Lancero holstered their pistols and shouldered their carbines. Colonel Lenau pulled his assault vest and an MP5 from the passenger's seat of the truck. Shouts of alarm began to ring out from the front of the mansion. Wrex led the way as the squad charged in through the kitchen entrance.

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**UPPER FLOORS**

"Pablo, what the hell is going on?" Enrique demanded angrily. His younger brother looked confused.

"I'm not sure," Pablo admitted. "The guard house is saying that one of the men is dead. And some of our sentries are not answering their radios. It might be more Americans."

"How?" Enrique walked over to the window. "We drove them into the jungle and have been hunting them relentlessly."

"Remember when they took down Noriega?" Pablo was frightened now. "They committed thousands of men to that battle, all to capture one man. It might be the same now."

"Shit," his brother turned back to him. "Call the airstrip. Tell them I want our helicopter up here immediately."

"One of the men must have already done that," Pablo could hear the familiar sound of a helicopter's rotor approaching the house. A black shadow flitted across the window. Then the chopper appeared.

Strange, it didn't look like the Bell Ranger that they usually employed...

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"Fire at will Fox," Strikeout snarled as he stabilised the Blackhawk.

"Firing," Warrant Officer Fox jammed his fingers down on the trigger studs for his minigun. The 7.62mm rounds exploded from the mouth of his weapon, intercepted with his first target and sawed him in half.

"Scratch one!" Fox whooped. "Just like 'Nam back in '65, hey Strikeout?"

"I was in kindergarten you old moron," Strikeout laughter stopped as he caught sight of a guard exiting the house, holding a dreadfully familiar weapon in his hands. "RPG! Twelve o'clock! Hold on!"

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"ENRIQUE!" Pablo crawled over to his brother. What was left of him anyway. The American guns had torn him to pieces. He could still see the helicopter, it was pulling away, out of reach of the rockets his brother had thought to buy to defend against an emergency like this.

"FUCKING YANQI!" Grabbing a pistol from his brother's business desk, Pablo racked back the slide and pulled the trigger, imagining every shot he fired was killing an American in the chopper. He knew the reality was that he was missing completely. But there were other Americans nearby. Just downstairs as a matter of fact. He'd show them who was boss. He'd kill both of them, right now. That...thing too.

Grabbing another clip from the desk, he ran for the door, then leapt down the stairs, heading for the basement. These ones would just be the first. He'd take over the cartel; he'd take over the whole Council, the fucking government maybe. He'd have trucks packed with explosives and driven right into the middle of American military bases. Those thugs would fear him. He'd kill their families, make them weep, and then kill them. No place would be safe for anyone who wore an American uniform. They'd learn. They would all fucking learn.

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The M-60 crashed, the carbines chattered, Lenau's MP5 snapped viciously as the squad fought their way through the main barracks. The only training the mercenaries must have had was in how not to shoot their shiny new AK-47 rifles. The bullets flew thick and fast...mostly into the walls. The few mercenaries shooting with any accuracy were all aiming at Wrex, a futile mistake. His shields and barrier firmly in place, the rounds ricocheted back down the hallways, sometimes fatally returning to sender.

It was the slaughter of wildcats amongst chickens, enough to make a professional soldier ashamed at how easy his job sometimes was. Out of the world's elite soldiers, only the SEAL's, the Delta Force and the SAS could rival the Green Berets for sheer lethality in close quarters fighting. It was a trademark of their profession, brutally taught by hours and hours of live fire exercises.

One of the mercenaries, frustrated by the lack of effect his bullets were having, charged forward, swinging a machete at the krogan. Wrex allowed the blade to bounce off his hide, then snatched it out of the man's hands and stuck it in his chest.

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**TRIUNE TOWER**

**NOS ASTRA, ILIUM**

"Well would you look at this?" Keira gestured enthusiastically. "First the humans defeat our hunters, now they fight alongside one of them to rescue their friends."

She leaned closer to the camera. "I'm telling you folks, this is inspiring stuff. Humans and krogan working together for a common goal. A real significant moment, showing the bonds that can form between species."

Dancing backward, she clapped her hands. "Still, I'm sure it won't be too long before Wrex finds a way to kill them!"

Another roar of laughter echoed from the audience.

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"Through here!" Toland had memorised a rough layout of the building. If Carlos and Shepard were anywhere, they would be on the lower levels. "Ammo check!"

"Half a mag, plus two spares," Lancero bounded after him, they paused only to check and clear the corners around which an enemy might be lurking.

"Five full ones," Lenau dropped an empty magazine and clipped in another one.

"One box left," Wrex growled. "This weapon is impressive. Primitive, but impressive."

"I've only got one left," Toland flipped his fire selector onto single shot. "Lieutenant, I may need to borrow some bullets."

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Pablo kicked open the door to the makeshift cell. The first Green Beret looked at him with an arrogant grin. The sound of gunfire was echoing throughout the mansion, the two men must have assumed that rescue was on its way. Not for them it wasn't.

"Sound like quite the party upstairs." The one chained to the ceiling speculated. "Are you..."

Pablo lifted his 9mm and shot Carlos through the left kneecap.

"FUCK! SON OF A BITCH!" Carlos screamed in agony. "DIDN'T YOUR PARENTS GIVE YOU ENOUGH LOVE AS A CHILD?"

"Funny," Pablo shot out the man's right kneecap next. "Tell me another joke American."

"Alright, your mother liked it up the ass," Carlos knew he should shut up. He knew that provoking the man in front of him would just result in more pain. But deep in his heart, Carlos knew that Death was coming for him. Nothing could prevent it now. The crazed look in the drug baron's eyes affirmed that suspicion. If he was going to die, he'd die with his pride intact. "Trouble was, your Dad had a small dick, so he..."

His right shoulder burned with unstoppable pain as a bullet tore through it. "Well fuck me! Just get it over with, pin dick!"

"Certainly," Pablo pressed the pistol against the Green Beret's skull. He allowed himself a smile. "My first kill. And it's an American. My brother would be so proud."

"Probably," a female voice whispered in his ear. "But he's dead too. And you're going to see him."

Alice twisted the gun out of his grip, kicked his legs out from underneath him, rammed his tailbone against the concrete floor and jerked his head around to the right.

Pablo found himself staring at his back, his whole body suddenly on fire with painful sensations. He barely had enough time to think up a last, desperate prayer to a god he had never believed in before his life ended.

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Alice couldn't help but feel nauseated as she looked at the two men in the room. Shepard was curled up on the bed, hands holding the bandage over his stomach wound. Carlos was dangling by his arms, bleeding from a pair of ruined kneecaps and a perforated shoulder. To the demolition expert's credit, he wasn't whining any more than was appropriate for a man in his position.

"Toland," she called out the door. "Found 'em. They're pretty fucked up."

"Holy Mother," Toland pushed past Alice and grabbed Carlos round the waist, taking the weight off wounded limbs. "Wrex! Machete! Now!"

"Alright," Wrex swung the blade at the chains and neatly severed them. "You should probably check that guy for keys. The boss always has the keys. I don't know why. Surely it makes more sense to..."

"Save it!" Lenau rifled through Pablo's pockets till he found a key ring. He set to work on Carlos' shackles.

=Captain, this is Sean= Toland's earpiece blared. =I'm seeing a lot of activity on the road. They've got reinforcements coming in from all over=

=Roger that= Toland helped Lenau get Carlos into a fireman's hold. "Wrex, go get your friend."

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"Holy shit!" Fox whistled. "Looks like every druggie in a ten mile radius is coming in."

"I'm going to bank around, bring us in over them, then you light them up," Strikeout brought the Blackhawk round in a steep dive. What he wouldn't have given for an Apache right now, packed with Hellfire and Hydra rockets. Instead, he had to make do with a pair of miniguns.

The tracer rounds didn't flash as bright in the day time, but they still had the same effect on the targets. They touched off fuel tanks, immolating the mercenaries onboard them. A few tried firing back, but Strikeout easily avoided the fire coming his way.

=Toland, you better be ready for dust off= Strikeout swerved back toward the compound. =I'm touching down in thirty seconds=

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"We're coming out now," Toland sent another burst at some guards trying to rush the front of the house. "Come around the back of the house."

=Roger= Strikeout winced as he heard bullets pinging off his fuselage. He jerked the Blackhawk to the left as an RPG flew past his window. "There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. There is no god but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet."

"Hey sir, I thought you said you didn't buy into that stuff?" His co-pilot attempted a joke, even though he was clutching his St. Christopher medal to his chest.

"Right now, I need all the help I can get," Strikeout retorted.

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"Alright go now!" Toland grunted as a bullet struck him in the chest. The round struck him dead centre in the chest plate. The stuff worked. Amazing. "GET TO THE CHOPPER!"

Lancero and Lenau raced across the patio, trying to be as gentle as possible with Shepard and Carlos. Strikeout hovered at the edge of the balcony, his rotors barely clearing the roof. Wrex followed them, cradling T'Livia in his arms. The Blackhawk dipped under the krogan's weight, Strikeout increased power to the engines, barely maintaining altitude. Alice and Toland stayed side by side, Toland's carbine barrel red hot, Alice blazing on full automatic with a purloined AK-47.

"You get those charges set?" Toland shouted above the weapons fire.

"Yeah, satchel charges on all the weak points," Alice swapped magazines with professional ease. "I think now might be a good time to leave."

"You go, I'll cover," allowing his carbine to hang by its sling, Toland snap drew his Colt and double tapped an RPG carrying mercenary thirty yards away. Pure adrenaline was fuelling his actions now, he doubted that he'd ever shoot better than this ever again. The tritium coated sights just switched from person to person, each .45 ACP round sending another man to meet his maker.

Alice turned and scuttled for the Blackhawk. Boarding it, she joined the others, shooting over Toland's head. "TOLAND! GET YOUR ASS ON BOARD YOU STUPID FUCKER!"

Bob could barely hear her as he switched from target to target. He was in an almost complete zen state. Was this the ultimate state of perfection? He was firing one handed now, the other wasn't necessary. His finger caressed the trigger over and over again. He had seven more clips to use. Almost fifty more rounds, for fifty more kills. He wanted to stay here. This was his moment. The moment he had been praying for all his life. The culmination of fifteen years of training. He was burning brighter than the sun. He had become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds. They would remember him for this. They'd count the bodies of his foes, piled around him.

He could almost hear the burial detail's rifles blazing above his coffin, his friends crowded round. Colonel Lenau giving a sombre speech at his graveside. Maybe even a posthumous Medal of Honour presented to Beth...Beth. Beth! BETH!

Reluctantly, Toland broke free of his trance. What was he thinking? How could he have forgotten his little girl? He promised her he would return. HE HAD FUCKING PROMISED!

"_Saint Michael the Archangel," _A prayer from his childhood, so very long forgotten. _"Defend me in the hour of battle. Be my safeguard, my shield against all evil."_

His legs felt so heavy. The Blackhawk was pulling away. The gunners couldn't suppress the volume of fire coming at them. He could see Strikeout, good old Strikeout, staring at him from the cockpit, desperation in his eyes.

They were worried he wouldn't make it. That he'd fail. That wasn't going to happen. He had enough strength for one last jump. He was going to sit in the front row when Beth graduated college. He was going to walk her down the aisle at her wedding. He'd mind the grandkids when she was busy; tell them the stories of his young days as a soldier. No one was going to take that away from him.

Planting his right foot on the edge of the balcony, he threw all his weight forward, soaring toward the chopper. He slammed into the edge of the troop bay and tried to scramble up, fingers searching for purchase, but finding none. He began to slip off.

Wrex reached forward and entwined his fingers in Toland's hair. Ignoring his agonised roar, the krogan yanked the man backwards, sprawling into the fuselage of the Blackhawk.

"Toland's on board, get us out of here!" Alice yelled at the cockpit.

"Roger, hammer down," Strikeout pushed the throttle all the way up, speeding away from the mansion.

"Hey Bob," Alice held up a detonator. "Check this out."

At the foundations of the mansion, a dozen C4 satchel charges had been shoved into position. When Alice clicked the detonator they exploded, engulfing the construct in a ball of flame, the concussive force disassembling it piece by piece.

Carlos laughed through a mouthful of blood. "Maybe this day isn't going to be a waste of time after all!"

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The Blackhawk touched down in the middle of the clearing, roughly two miles from the mansion. Sean and Bulldog appeared from the treeline, limping toward the helicopter.

"This is where I get off," Wrex announced as he hefted T'Livia over his shoulder. "I should be able to signal my shuttle from here."

He hadn't walked five paces before he heard the sound of a minigun spooling up. Turning around, he saw Alice mounted behind the gun.

"Do we kill them?" she sought confirmation from Toland. His Colt was also pointed at Wrex.

"You killed my friends," Toland shook his head. "I don't even want to know why. There's no excuse you could give me that would bring back guys like Pixie and Ducky. I should end you right now."

"You owe me your life human," Wrex had no weapons. He could use his biotics, but that would rely on him throwing a warp faster than Alice could fire a thousand rounds through his skull. "So do your men."

Toland's hand shook ever so slightly. "Fine. You get to go this time. If you come back, I will kill you."

"I've heard those words many times, from thousands of warriors. All of them were considered more dangerous than you," Wrex paused. "I believe you are the first who could actually do it."

Nodding respectfully, the krogan Battlemaster walked into the jungle. Toland stared after him, almost in shock.

Alice nudged Toland. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he planted himself on one of the crash seats. "Let's go home."

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**NOS ASTRA**

**ILIUM**

**TRIUNE TOWER, PENTHOUSE LEVEL**

**FOUR HOURS LATER**

Keira hummed happily as she stepped out of the shower. Well, she had lost some valuable hunters, but that didn't matter much in the grand scheme of things. Kalya had picked up Wrex and T'Livia and was heading back. Her show was enjoying a ratings bonanza, the clips of Toland fighting Wrex, Alice fighting the twins, and the escape from the mansion were particularly popular.

These humans held great promise for future shows. Maybe set an Ardat-Yakshi loose in New York? Transplant a yahg into tribal territory in Africa? The possibilities were endless.

Once Wrex got back, she'd...

There was a crash of breaking glass as the windows to her penthouse were smashed in. Tall figures dressed in assault armour were everywhere. She tried to scream, but felt her whole body go limp as a tranquilizer dart hit her neck. She collapsed to the ground.

"Package secured," she heard a voice say, just before everything went dark. "Prepping for transport to the Citadel."

What? NO! She couldn't go to the Citadel! She was...wanted...by...C-Sec...

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**A/N: This was written on an Easter chocolate high. Does it show?**


	14. Where No Bullets Fly

Predators

Chapter Fourteen: Where No Bullets Fly

I don't own Bioware

"_I will leave these rough pursuits behind, I will return to my home; I have had enough of war._

_But should danger once more appear on the horizon, then I will take my rifle and once more defend my family and my life. This is my oath as a soldier. I will never forget._

_-Statement given by an Australian Infantry Officer to a reporter at the conclusion of World War I._

**JANUARY 7****TH****, 2001**

"In other news, Brigadier General Abraham Lenau, former commander of 7th Special Forces Group, has today been appointed as Operations Advisor to the Joint Chiefs of Staff," the young anchor announced. "This follows the full recovery of Major General Waters from a heart attack, and the resignation of Rear Admiral Solomon Vance from the position. Admiral Vance said that he was proud of the service he had rendered to his country, and only wished he could have been a stronger man when he was most needed. Conspiracy theories are already spreading that this shakeup is somehow connected to a drug war between rival cartels down in Colombia. This brief conflict was punctuated by the complete destruction of a major..."

Toland reached forward and flicked the television off. "Well, just goes to show that there's some justice in the world."

Sitting beside him on the couch, Beth cocked her head, curiously meeting her father's eyes. "What do you mean Daddy?"

"Nothing baby," Bob lied. "Just something silly. Come on, let's go grab some ice cream before you Aunt gets back."

"Okay," Beth ran for the front door, Bob just a few paces behind her, panting with mock effort.

"Oh, you're far too quick for an old man like me," he groaned as he swept her off her feet and onto his shoulders. "Let's slow down a little."

"Hey Daddy?" Beth wrapped her arms around his head. "Are you going to go away again?"

"Not for a while honey," Bob reassured her. "Uncle Abe is giving me a long holiday."

"Good," Beth perched contentedly on his shoulders for a while. Then a thought struck her. "Oh, I'm sorry Daddy. I forgot to give you your dog tags back."

"Keep 'em," he replied instantly. "I'll get another set made up. That way, I'll always be around you."

"I'd like that," Beth yawned. "For you to never, ever leave."

Toland didn't try to dispel her of her illusion. He was still a Green Beret, a sworn protector of his country. There would be times still to come when he would be tried and tested. And one day, he might not be up to the challenge. But right now, he had everything he wanted. Peace, home and family. Right now, Robert Toland's life was good.

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**FORT BRAGG**

**NORTH CAROLINA**

**MEDICAL CENTRE**

"Here he is," Angela handed her son to his father. Chris Shepard smiled with untempered pride at the infant in his arms.

"Boy, we made one heck of a kid, huh?" He almost choked with emotion. "Honey, do you mind if I give him his middle names?"

"Sure, what do you want?" She already knew what they would be.

"Michael, Travis, Jack." Chris stroked his son's brow. "After three of the best men I've ever known."

"Gerry Mike Travis Jack Shepard," Angela slipped onto the bed with him. "That sounds good. Let's hope we raise him to be as great as they were."

"He's a Shepard," his good humour returned. "Greatness is almost mandatory."

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"I'm sorry ma'am," the doctor explained to Maria. "He lost a lot of blood. Maybe too much. I don't know if he can make it. He's been in a coma for a week, his body is trying to repair itself, but we can't see much brain activity. He has to find a way to come back, a reason to live."

"I think I know a way," Maria sat next to her unconscious husband. "Could I have some privacy please?"

"Of course," the Army doctor backed out of the room. It was sad really, he had seen cases like these before. The wife unable to deal with the fact that she might be a widow soon.

Maria leaned in close to his ear. "Now you listen to me, Staff Sergeant Carlos Estevez. You are going to wake up and get moving. You're going to have your legs put back together, then you're going to walk and run again. You'll do the job that you were born to do. Liberate the oppressed, protect the innocent and punish the guilty. And you'll come back to your children."

Moving his limp left arm, she placed his hand on her stomach. "All four of them. You know why? Because you're stronger than any man I know. You were stronger than your friends back in LA. You were stronger than everyone else when you qualified for your beret. And you were stronger than those bastards who shot you. That's why I love you, that's why I'll never stop loving you."

For almost a minute she sat there, holding his hand. Still there was no response. Feeling moisture gathering in her eyes, she stood up and moved toward the door."

"Hey _bambino_," a voice called softly from the bed. Spinning around, she saw Carlos grinning softly, his eyes barely open. "I think the doc needs to turn down the meds. I could have sworn that an angel's been hanging around my bedside."

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"...funerals of three Special Forces operators, killed during a helicopter accident, that took place two days ago at Arlington, have sparked off a request by Congress into the circumstances surrounding their tragic deaths..."

Brian Andropov sat in the living room of his house. Actually, it wasn't really his house anymore. As was customary, a war widow was given an almost indefinite amount of time to move out of the on-base housing area. 1st Sergeant Andropov had planned carefully for the future. Numerous college trust funds had been set up for his kids, and Strikeout was personally footing the payments on the new house. Half the men in 7th SFG owed their hides to Pixie. To turn their backs on his family would be dishonour and inhumanity for all of them. They would take care of their own.

Sitting with Brian was Bulldog and Sean. "I was going to join up after school," the eldest son confessed. "Dad didn't like it. Said I had more potential than just gruntwork."

"He was right," Bulldog gently broke down the idea. "You're smarter than that. Go to West Point, get your commission. It's the best way to honour him."

"I guess so," Brian felt almost numb. "He didn't really die in a chopper crash did he?"

"No," Sean ignored the look he was getting from Bulldog. "No he didn't. He died the way he lived. Sacrifice? Friendship? Those weren't just words to your dad. They were his core beliefs. He loved you, was proud of you. And you can sure as hell be proud of being that man's son."

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Her weapons were all laid out on the kitchen table. The .44 Smith & Wesson newly polished and shined. Her M-40, the custom walnut stock glowing. The blue blood had been cleaned off her machete and dagger, the spooks had wanted it for examination. Her beloved carbine was lying in pieces back in the jungle now.

"So," Tom took his seat opposite her. "You thinking of going back in? Agency wants someone to deal with that problem in Korea."

Alice wistfully ran her hand over the barrel of her pistol. The free falling rush of adrenaline, the satisfaction at a job well done. She couldn't deny the appeal returning to the field had to her. But it wasn't powerful enough.

"It's not my time anymore," placing the eight inch revolver back in its case, she shut the lid. "Better leave it to the young blood. I've had enough of war Tom. I'm not that angry kid anymore."

Regretfully, she placed the weapons back in their closet. Returning to the table, she took Tom's hand. "I took the mission to fulfil an old promise. Now I've done that. I know my sister's at peace. Now I can be too. After all, I'm not going to live forever."

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Lieutenant Hector Lancero finished consoling Sergeant Vega's widow. Such a sad thing, that a brave man could be killed so easily. But the time for mourning was drawing to a close. There were still so many things that needed doing. The cartels would still need to be fought, tooth and nail.

He found his sense of purpose renewed. The path to defeating the cartels would be long and arduous, paved with danger. It could take decades to wipe them out. So be it. Lancero had a job to do. He would complete the mission that he had set out to do. The deaths of his men, of the Americans, they would count for something. Justice would come, for all involved.

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**CITADEL**

**THE PRESIDIUM**

**LEGAL DISTRICT**

"Keira Triune," the stern looking matriarch stared down at the asari sitting in front of her. Without makeup, high heels or her secretaries, the businesswoman looked remarkably small and plain. The jury had found her guilty on all accounts, including third degree murder, deliberately interfering in the development of a sapient race, and a dozen other charges. The judge was renowned for the severity of her punishments, today would be no exception. "Never, in a thousand years of experience, have I seen such a blatant disregard for the rules upon which our society is based. In the name of profit, you have violated every law regarding developing sapients that we have."

Romus Vakarian sat at the back of the courtroom. Part of him felt smug, part of him felt righteous, most of him felt nothing. No matter how harsh the sentence, Keira would be getting off easy.

"Ordinarily, I might show leniency, in view of your youth and inexperience," the matriarch shook her head. "But not only have you shown yourself to be both intelligent and cunning, you have also demonstrated an incredibly malicious intent in your actions. Therefore, I have no hesitation in sentencing you to the maximum penalty of four hundred years, without the possibility of parole. My only regret is that the law does not allow me to lock you away for the rest of your natural life. Per the request of the prosecution, you will serve out your sentence in a turian maximum security facility."

"Your Honour," Keira's defence attorney, a frazzled looking salarian, made one last protest. "What of the evidence we have, regarding the illegal extradition of my client."

The matriarch paused as she stood up. "No authorisation was ever given for an extradition outside of Citadel territory. Certainly no C-Sec or Council operatives were involved in this extraction. Miss Triune's travel arrangements, I must confess, do not interest me in the slightest."

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"Well, that's it, out of a job again," Wrex chuckled as he turned off the view screen. "Do me a favour Quarian. Drop me off somewhere that has good employment rates."

"Sure," Kalya'Zorah twisted in her seat. "I'm sorry I have to do this, but with the Ilium police confiscating my accounts, I figured that now would be a good time to return to the Fleet. I'm dreadfully sorry that you won't be paid."

"No problem," Wrex reassured her. "At the end of the day, it was a good hunt. The best I've ever had."

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**ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY TWO YEARS LATER**

"So, Shepard," Wrex casually questioned Lieutenant Commander Travis Shepard. "Is there a history of warriors in your family?"

"There is as a matter of fact," Travis was glad to talk with Wrex. The two were forming a fast friendship, ever since he had helped Wrex recover his family armour. "My father and grandfather were both N7's. My great-grandfather was in the United States Army Delta Force. It stretches back a long way, not sure where it started."

"I see," if it were possible for a krogan to look completely innocent and inquisitive, Wrex was accomplishing it. "And ahhhh...any mention of a man named Robert Toland in any family stories?"

"There might have been," Shepard frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," Wrex chuckled. "Do you believe in fate Shepard?"

"Not really. Why?"

"Well, if Fate does exist, then she's a cross eyed varren bitch with a batarian's sense of humour," Wrex declared. Shepard just looked even more confused. "Long story, I'll tell you about it another time."

Travis just nodded. "Wrex."

"Shepard."

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**A/N: Took me a few tries, but I finally came up with an ending that felt satisfying. This concludes Predators, I hope you enjoyed the ride.**

**Toland MIGHT be in a POSSIBLE Self Insert Fanfiction that I've been considering. The only reason I've been thinking about doing one, is that I always wondered if it's possible to write one of these things that doesn't suck. Regardless, I'm not planning on writing it any time this year. Thanks for reading.**


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